bice  of 
/  Heart 

MARGARET  BLAKE 


/  2  p 


'YOU   DISPARAGE   IT  BECAUSE   YOU   ARE  JEALOUS  OF  HIM. 

Frontispiece  p.  211 


THE    VOICE    OF 
THE    HEART 

A  Romance 


BY 

MARGARET    BLAKE 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  GREATER  JOY" 


ILLUSTRATIONS     BY 

E.  A.  FURMAN 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
O.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


The  Voice  of  the  Heart 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  You  disparage  it  because  you  are  jealous  of  him."    Frontispiece.  211 

"Only  to  kiss  her!    Only  to  kiss  her!"  he  whispered  tensely.       .  103 

"How  badly  you  need  those  two  hundred  dollars"  said  Earlcote  .  391 

"  Reason  and  the  voice  of  the  heart  approve  of  the  step."  .    .    .  465 


2229223 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  HEART 


CHAPTER    I 

There  was  to  be  a  wedding  at  Penascapet  Mountain 
House  that  year,  and  the  entire  house  rejoiced  at  an 
affair  which  brought  so  much  pleasurable  excitement  with 
it.  The  Reynolds,  a  family  of  five,  had  occupied  the 
right  wing  of  the  Penascapet  Mountain  House  every 
summer  for  the  past  twenty-five  years.  Emma  Reynolds, 
the  eldest  daughter,  had  been  born  there,  and  she  was 
determined  to  celebrate  her  nuptials  in  a  good-sized  sum- 
mer house  erected  on  the  floor  of  an  old  barn,  which 
overlooked  a  small  pond  plentifully  supplied  with  water- 
lilies  in  summer,  and  which,  in  winter,  grew  so  many  suc- 
cessive crops  of  ice  on  its  miniature  area  that  there  was 
enough  frozen  water  to  preserve  the  provisions  and  sup- 
ply the  icewater  pitchers  of  the  seventy  odd  guests  of 
the  Penascapet  House  through  the  ensuing  summers. 

Day  after  day  the  younger  element  repaired  to  the 
summer  house  to  settle  the  weighty  problem  of  decora- 
tion, for  Emma  Reynolds  wanted  no  florist's  flowers. 

"Daisies  and  water-lilies  and  devil's  paint-brushes," 
suggested  Louise  Reynolds,  who  was  her  sister's  junior 
by  two  years.  She  was  a  dainty  blonde,  with  eyes  of 
sky-blue. 

"Devil's  paint-brushes !  Horrors !"  Emma  looked  her, 
scorn.  "Devil's  paint-brushes,  indeed!  I  want  white 
flowers  only." 

5 


6  THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART 

"White  flowers  only,"  giggled  Louise.  "Betty  Gar- 
side,  did  you  hear  that?" 

The  girl  addressed  as  Betty  Garside  raised  her  brows 
without  lifting  her  eyes.  They  were  beautifully  penciled 
black  brows,  and  stood  out  with  startling  vividness  from 
the  white  face.  Betty  Garside  was  barely  eighteen. 
There  was  about  her  a  fragrance  and  a  dewiness  which 
made  her  conspicuous,  even  among  the  group  of  attrac- 
tive girls  with  whom  she  was  sitting.  Her  eyes  were 
black;  her  blue-black  hair  lay  back  from  the  temples  in 
glossy  waves ;  to-day,  because  the  sultry  August  morning 
had  given  her  a  slight  headache,  she  wore  the  shower  of 
black  curls  schoolgirl  fashion  down  her  back,  securing 
the  heavy  cluster  of  hair  with  a  big  white  bow  in  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  Her  complexion,  instead  of  being  the 
usual  dusky  complexion  of  the  brunette,  was  dazzlingly, 
snowily  white.  A  faint  sea-shell  pink  invaded  the  cheeks 
in  trailing  ridges,  on  much  the  same  plan  as  the  petal  of 
a  white  peony  is  veined  with  pink. 

"Well,"  said  Betty,  "and  why  shouldn't  she  have  white 
flowers?  If  I  were  to  be  married,  I  wouldn't  want  any 
color  but  white." 

"Oh,  well — for  you  white  would  be  appropriate,"  said 
one  of  the  girls,  and  Louise  added : 

"Because  you  are  so  painfully  good,  Betty." 

"I'm  not  painfully  good,  at  all !"  Betty  repudiated  the 
arraignment  of  being  good  as  indignantly  as  any  normal 
girl  of  her  age  would  have  done.  "I  hate  goody-goodies." 

"But,  really,  Betty/'  Louise  mocked,  "you  are  pain- 
fully, distressingly  good." 

"I  would  like  to  know  in  what  way?" 

"Help  me  think  of  an  answer,  girls,"  entreated  Louise. 

"We're  not  running  a  public  thinkery,  thank  you," 
someone  said. 

Another  girl  remarked,  apparently  without  relevance : 


THE    VOICE    OF   THE   HEART  7 

"If  Emma  were  being  married  down  Louisiana  way, 
in  the  old  days,  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  move  out  of  the 
house  or  see  a  soul  except  Mrs.  Reynolds  and  Louise  for 
the  last  three  days  before  the  wedding.  Barbarous  cus- 
tom, wasn't  it?  They  did  that  to  mother.  How  she  ever 
survived  it,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"I  think  that  a  sweet  custom,"  Betty  said  defensively. 
"If  I  were  about  to  be  married,  I  would  shut  out  the 
world  for  the  last  three  days  that  I  might  think  only  of 
my  intended  and  our  joint  future." 

"Oh,  slush!"  said  Louise;  "slush,  mush,  and  punk. 
Who's  the  sentimental  goody-goody  now?" 

But  the  girl  who  had  told  about  the  old  custom  con- 
tinued : 

"That  wasn't  the  reason  they  kept  the  bride-to-be  in- 
doors for  three  days.  It  was  considered  immodest,  you 
know,  for  her  to  show  herself  in  public." 

"Immodest?"  Betty  asked  innocently. 

"Immodest.  Goodness,  don't  you  understand?"  the 
girl  asked,  a  little  impatiently,  and  the  irrepressible  Louise 
added : 

"Get  an  axe,  someone.  First  aid  to  the  slow-witted. 
Oh,  Betty !  How  stoopid  you  are  in  some  things.  You 
don't  seriously  suppose,  do  you,  Betty  Garside,  that  a 
man  marries  a  girl  just  to  decorate  his  breakfast- table, 
and  for  the  fun  of  paying  her  dressmakers'  bills?  You 
don't  believe  that,  do  you,  now?" 

"Well,"  said  Betty,  her  chin  high  in  the  air,  "I  do 
think  that,  if  he  is  a  nice-minded  man,  he  thinks  just  of 
the  affection  he  feels  for  his  betrothed,  and  of  the  com- 
panionship, and  of  the  feeling  that  she  and  he  are  every- 
thing in  the  wide  world  to  each  other." 

The  girls  laughed,  all  but  Emma  Reynolds,  who  said 
very  seriously : 

"Betty  is  right."    Then,  with  a  sweet,  protective  ges- 


8  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ture,  she  threw  her  arm  about  the  shoulders  of  the 
younger  girl,  and,  drawing  Betty  toward  herself,  kissed 
her.  "Marriage  must  be  based  on  true  affection, 
companionship,  respect,"  she  said  gravely,  addressing 
herself  to  Betty  only,  "if  it  is  to  be  a  real  mar- 
riage. The  other  feeling,  dearie,  as  you  will  realize  some 
day,  must  be  there,  too.  But  it's  subordinate  to  the 
others." 

"I  wouldn't  marry  any  man  in  whom  the  other  feeling 
existed,"  Betty  said  agitatedly. 

"I  hope  you  won't  marry  any  man  in  whom  it  does  not 
exist,"  Emma  responded,  now  vastly  amused  by  Betty's 
stubbornness. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  feelings  or  no  feelings,"  Louise 
sang  out,  "Betty  is  going  to  be  the  next  bride.  Did  you 
know  it,  girls?"  Louise  adored  Betty,  thought  her  quite 
perfect,  but  she  was  never  content  to  be  near  Betty  with- 
out harassing  her  with  her  teasing. 

"How  can  you  make  such  a  statement,  Louise  ?"  Betty 
demanded  indignantly.  "Why,  I'm  not  even  in  love." 

"But  someone  is  in  love  with  you — Mr.  Pidgin." 

Betty  tossed  her  black  curls  angrily.  Usually  she  par- 
ried allusions  to  the  gentleman  Louise  had  named  with 
good-natured  contempt,  but  to-day,  because  Louise's  al- 
lusions followed  suggestive  remarks,  she  became  blindly 
angry. 

"There's  Mr.  Pidgin  now,  Betty,"  Louise  continued 
her  tormenting.  "He's  coming  up  the  hill.  Coming  here 
to  look  for  you." 

Betty  sprang  up  excitedly. 

"I'm  going,"  she  cried.  "I  leave  Mr.  Pidgin  to  you 
and  your  edifying  conversation."  The  girls,  amazed, 
and  a  little  frightened  at  gentle  Betty's  unwonted  fury, 
stopped  laughing,  and  tried  to  remonstrate  with  her,  but 
Betty,  gathering  up  several  books,  ran  from  the  pavilion, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  9 

and  sped  agilely  along  the  road  in  a  direction  opposite  to 
the  one  in  which  Mr.  Pidgin  was  ambling  along. 

Betty  did  not  return  to  the  hotel  immediately.  The  im- 
pure thoughts  which  some  of  the  girls  had  voiced  troubled 
her  strangely.  She  could  not  comprehend  how  girls,  nice 
girls,  girls  brought  up  like  herself,  could  jest  and  speak 
openly  upon  subjects  of  sex.  The  entire  subject  of  sex 
revolted  Betty  unspeakably.  For  a  long  time  she  had 
imagined  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  be  in  love ;  her  im- 
agination had  bodied  forth  in  vain  attempts  to  evoke  a 
vision  of  the  sort  of  man  she  would  love ;  she  had  no  pre- 
dilection, no  prejudice  for  or  against  men  fair  or  dark, 
men  gaunt  or  plump;  one  prejudice  only  she  possessed, 
and  that  was  strong  as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  The  man 
she  loved  must  differ  in  one  particular  from  the  average 
man  as  she  reluctantly  realized  the  average  man  to  be. 
The  man  she  loved  must  know  no  yearnings  of  sex.  He 
must  love  her  as  she  loved  him — purely,  truly,  romanti- 
cally. The  voice  of  the  heart  must  speak  in  him  as  in 
her,  and  must  bind  one  to  the  other.  She  refused  to 
admit  the  validity  of  the  call  of  the  flesh. 

To  banish  the  disagreeable  thoughts  which  the  foolish 
remarks  of  the  girls  had  induced  in  her,  she  went  for  a 
long  walk  down  a  footpath  that  ended  in  an  old  Indian 
trail  running  along  the  mossy  bank  of  an  extinct  river, 
where  ferns  and  bracken,  arbutus  plants,  and  wintergreen 
berries  grew  in  sweet  confusion.  When,  two  hours  later, 
she  emerged  from  the  woods,  homeward  bound,  she  had 
left  behind  her  all  disagreeable  thoughts,  and  all  the  re- 
sentment she  had  felt  against  Louise  earlier  in  the  day. 
Instead,  she  was  filled  with  a  strange,  subdued  glow  of 
happiness. 

She  went  to  her  room  and  dressed  for  supper.  Im- 
mediately after  supper  Louise  and  the  other  girls,  instead 
of  waiting  for  Betty  to  join  them,  miraculously  disap- 


10  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

peared.  Betty,  to  spoil  their  attempt  to  discipline  her  for 
her  desertion  in  the  afternoon,  wandered  into  the  tiny 
room  set  apart  as  a  reading-room,  and  began  examining 
the  books  stacked  on  the  old-fashioned  swing  shelf.  The 
name  of  Swinburne  caught  her  eye.  She  remembered 
that  at  school  Swinburne  was  one  of  the  poets  from  whom 
no  excerpts  had  been  offered  to  stimulate  their  youthful 
palates  for  the  classics — a  circumstance  which  had  inter- 
ested her,  even  then.  She  had  always  meant,  in  a  vague 
way,  to  explore  Swinburne  at  some  time  for  this  reason, 
but  the  curiosity  aroused  in  her  had  never  been  suffi- 
ciently great  to  overcome  the  inertia  of  Betty's  lymphatic 
temperament.  And  Swinburne  had  not  been  explored. 

She  took  down  the  volume  from  the  shelf,  and  opened 
it  at  haphazard.  The  first  sentence  she  read  had  the 
blinding  effect  of  a  spray  of  cold  water.  The  next  mo- 
ment liquid  fire  surged  through  Betty's  brain.  This  was 
literature,  indeed! 

She  had  chanced  upon  "The  Garden  of  Proserpine" : 

From  too  much  joy  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  made  free 
We  thank,  with  brief  thanksgiving, 
Whatever  gods  may  be, 
That  no  man  lives  forever, 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never, 
That  e'en  the  weariest  river, 
Flows  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Breathlessly,  oblivious  of  time,  she  read  on  and  on. 
A  step  came  down  the  corridor.  It  was  her  mother. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Betty?" 

Betty  started. 

"I  came  up  for  a  handkerchief  and  happened  to  stop 
here  for  a  moment,"  she  answered  glibly.  It  was  the 
first  deliberate  untruth  she  had  ever  told  her  mother,  and 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  11 

she  could  not  have  told  why  she  told  it.  Her  mother 
would  not  have  objected  to  her  reading  Swinburne,  for 
her  mother  was  continually  urging  her  to  overcome  her 
innate  laziness  and  read  "good  literature".  Probably  her 
mother  would  have  been  delighted  to  hear  that  Betty 
was  taking  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  But  Betty,  un- 
accountably, meant  to  hoard  to  herself  the  sweet  honey 
she  had  discovered  by  herself. 

"I  am  tired,"  said  Betty's  mother.  "I  am  going  to  bed. 
Are  you  coming?" 

"Yes,  Mother." 

But,  on  the  way  to  her  room,  Betty  encountered  Louise. 

"Oh,  Betty,"  exclaimed  Louise,  "what  do  you  think? 
Emma  is  still  on  the  back  porch  with  Herman." 

The  responsive  smile,  which  Louise  expected,  was  not 
forthcoming.  Betty's  brain  was  on  fire  from  her  hour's 
reading,  and  she  was  in  sympathy  with  the  lovers.  They 
had  sat  on  the  back  porch  as  the  sun  went  down,  filling  in 
the  colossal  spaces  between  the  mountains  and  tree-trunks 
and  the  tiny  spaces  between  the  leaves  and  ripening  fruit 
of  the  orchard  with  amber,  burnt  orange,  and  gold.  The 
back  porch  was  innocent  of  a  lantern,  and  Betty  pictured 
the  lovers  sitting  in  the  gathering  darkness,  in  their  nos- 
trils the  sweet  scent  of  mellowing  sickle  pears,  ripening 
plums,  and  fallen  and  bruised  apples,  rendered  oblivious, 
because  of  the  magic  of  clasped  hands  and  soft  pressure 
of  lips,  to  fluttering  moths,  wheeling  millers,  and  flapping 
bats.  It  was  a  sensation  that  was  new  to  Betty — this 
feeling  of  sympathy  for  lovers.  In  it  there  was  something 
vaguely  resembling  envy.  Yet  why  should  she  feel  envy  ? 
Certainly  Herman,  a  commonplace  youth,  with  a  gawky 
\valk,  dull  face,  and  awkward  manners,  would  have  added 
no  enchantment  to  the  night  for  her.  She  would  have 
hated  the  love-touch  of  his  red,  clammy  hands.  She 
hated  to  shake  hands  with  him  even. 


12  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"And,  what  do  you  think,  Betty?"  Louise  inquired, 
with  the  inevitable  giggle,  "what  do  you  think?  Mr. 
Pidgin  asked  for  you  three  times  this  afternoon  and  four 
times  this  evening.  Oh,  Betty!"  Giggling  with  Louise 
was  not  so  much  an  action  as  a  condition,  and  she  was 
in  the  throes  now. 

"Did  he?"  queried  Betty,  with  fine  scorn.  "Mr.  Pidgin 
is  a  creature  of  habit.  Because  he  sits  at  the  same  table 
with  mother  and  myself,  he  feels  a  sort  of  proprietary 
interest  in  us." 

"Does  he,  though?"  asked  Louise.  "He  sat  at  the 
same  table  with  us  all  last  year,  but  he  never  asked  for 
me  when  I  left  the  piazza.  Believe  me." 

"Perhaps  you  never  left  it  when  he  was  around.  Per- 
haps his  presence  anchored  you  to  the  spot." 

"Oh,  Betty!    Oh,  Betty!"  remonstrated  Louise. 

Mr.  Pidgin  was  the  staple  of  conversation  at  Penasca- 
pet  Mountain  House.  Without  Mr.  Pidgin  conversation 
would  have  degenerated  into  chatter  upon  subjects  of 
perennial  interest,  such  as  the  servant-girl  question,  and 
the  cost  of  living,  and  the  corruption  of  the  United  States 
senate.  But  Mr.  Pidgin  furnished  a  timely  interest  and 
promoted  conversation — Mr.  Pidgin,  whose  name  was  a 
cruel  misnomer,  because  he  tipped  the  scales  at  two 
hundred  and  fifty,  and  had  a  complexion  as  florid  as  a 
newborn  infant's.  Mr.  Pidgin's  masculinity  was  the  only 
trait  that  had  thrust  him  upon  this  pinnacle  of  surpass- 
ing interest,  because,  for  six  days  out  of  seven,  barring 
the  gardener,  the  stableman,  the  host,  and  the  bellboy, 
Mr.  Pidgin  was  the  only  man  at  Penascapet  House.  The 
rest  of  the  men,  Herman  included,  came  on  for  the  week- 
end every  Saturday,  which,  in  that  unsophisticated  com- 
munity, was  termed  "coming  up  over  Sunday". 

On  Monday  morning,  long  before  the  fair  sex  had 
rallied  from  the  phlegmatic  delights  of  slumber,  there 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  13 

was  a  general  exodus  of  the  stronger  sex.  Mr.  Pidgin 
alone  remained,  although  he  was  continually  proclaiming 
his  intention  "to  go  down  to  the  city  next  week"  to  look 
after  some  business  interests.  He  had  proclaimed  this  so 
often  that  Mr.  Pidgin's  business  interests,  like  Mr.  Pidgin 
himself,  had  become  one  of  the  standing  jokes  at  Penas- 
capet. 

Certainly  Mr.  Pidgin  looked  as  if  he  had  not  a  care  in 
the  world,  and  it  was  rumored  that  he  had  an  income  of 
over  twenty-five  thousand  a  year.  Why  a  man  with 
twenty-five  thousand  a  year  should  elect  to  come  year 
after  year  to  so  slow  a  place  as  Penascapet,  where  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  and  to  eat  and  to  talk,  was 
a  mystery  to  the  younger  guests,  who  would  have  pre- 
ferred the  seashore  for  their  summer's  holiday,  and  who 
one  and  all  endured  Penascapet  only  because  their  parents 
brought  them  there  willy-nilly.  For  dearth  of  more  in- 
teresting subject  matter  the  girls  fell  to  accusing  each 
other  of  being  the  magnet  that  attracted  Mr.  Pidgin  to 
the  Penascapet  oasis  year  after  year.  Betty,  of  late,  had 
become  the  storm  center  of  these  fusillades  of  wit.  There 
was,  indeed,  as  Betty's  mother  saw  with  secret  joy,  ample 
grounds  for  this  teasing. 

"And  is  Mr.  Pidgin  going  to  New  York  to-morrow?" 
Betty  asked,  sitting  down  on  the  stairs,  with  the  volume 
of  Swinburne  between  her  and '  the  carpet,  making  a 
highly  uncomfortable  seat.  She  would  have  died  rather 
than  let  Louise  see  that  treasured  tome.  The  entire 
house  would  be  apprised  before  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing that  Betty  Garside  had  taken  to  reading  poetry,  and 
they  would  have  drawn,  heaven  only  knows  what  infer- 
ences, quite  possibly  the  preposterous  one  that  she  was  in 
love  with  Mr.  Pidgin. 

The  thought  that  Mr.  Pidgin  could  induce  in  anyone 
"too  great  a  joy  of  living"  tickled  Betty's  sense  of  humor. 


14  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

She  grinned,  Cheshire-cat  fashion.  At  that  moment  Mr. 
Pidgin,  puffing  like  an  asthmatic  steam-engine,  hove  in 
sight  from  below.  When  his  head  was  on  a  level  with 
the  banisters  of  the  first  landing,  Louise  called  out : 

"Miss  Garside  wants  to  know  whether  you  are  going 
to  the  city  to-morrow,  Mr.  Pidgin." 

"In  this  heat?  Indeed  not,"  puffed  Mr.  Pidgin.  "I 
am  going  to  ask  every  young  lady  under  twenty  to  go  on 
a  straw-ride  to-morrow." 

"How  lovely,"  Betty  said  ironically. 

"There'll  be  at  least  sixteen  of  us,"  giggled  Louise. 
"You'll  have  your  hands  full,  Mr.  Pidgin." 

"To  have  my  hands  full  of  such  charming  buds  as  are 
assembled  at  Penascapet  is  something  to  be  envied  for," 
rejoined  Mr.  Pidgin.  He  addressed  Louise,  but  looked 
at  Betty,  as  Betty,  who  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  knew 
perfectly  well. 

"A  straw-ride  will  be  awfully  comfortable  for  you,  Mr. 
Pidgin."  This  from  Louise. 

Betty  thought:  "Heavens,  how  inane  it  all  is."  She 
was  burning  to  get  to  her  room  with  her  newly  discov- 
ered Swinburne,  and,  besides,  the  book  upon  which  she 
was  still  sitting  was  beginning  to  give  her  a  cramp. 

"I  shall  sit  next  to  the  driver,"  said  Mr.  Pidgin.  "I 
will  be  quite  comfortable  there." 

"There  are  two  seats  next  to  the  driver,"  commented 
Louise. 

"Then,  if  you  are  a  good  little  girl,  I  will  let  you  sit 
next  to  me." 

Betty  rose  abruptly.  As  a  rule  these  inanities  of  con- 
versation mildly  amused  her  because  of  their  very  inanity. 
To-day  they  were  insufferable.  She  wanted  to  shout  out 
aloud  that  it  was  waste  of  time  to  indulge  in  such  verbal 
froth  when  golden  treasures  of  thought,  couched  in  the 
silver  and  amethyst  of  matchless  language,  were  to  be 
found  in  the  very  house. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  15 

Towering  above  the  pudgy  Mr.  Pidgin  and  the  silly 
Louise,  her  pale  young  splendor,  with  its  dark  halo  of 
hair  detaching  itself  from  its  surroundings,  was  like  a 
pillar  of  sculptured  alabaster,  which,  by  some  untoward- 
ness  of  fate,  has  been  condemned  to  a  place  in  a  vege- 
table garden. 

"Good-night,"  she  exclaimed.  "Mother  is  waiting  for 
me." 

Betty  smuggled  the  volume  of  poetry  into  her  room 
unperceived  by  anyone.  Usually  she  undressed  in  the 
dark,  with  only  the  light  shining  through  the  transom 
above  the  door  to  guide  her,  but  to-day  she  groped  for 
the  matches  and  struck  a  light.  Scarcely  half  an  inch  of 
candle  remained  in  the  candlestick,  for  at  Penascapet 
candles  were  the  only  mode  of  illumination  employed  in 
the  bedrooms. 

Betty  hailed  a  maid  who  was  passing  the  door. 

"Maggie,"  Betty  cried,  "can  you  get  me  a  candle?  Two 
candles?" 

"Two,  Miss?"  inquired  the  girl.  She  emphasized  the 
word  unconsciously.  "What  may  you  be  wantin'  with 
two  candles,  Miss?" 

"I  may  want  to  sit  up  until  after  midnight." 

"Fancy  staying  up  that  late,"  said  Maggie.  She  opened 
the  door  to  an  unused  room.  It  cracked  on  its  hinges, 
and  Betty  wondered  what  law  of  physics  caused  things 
which  were  noiseless  in  broad  daylight  to  creak  and 
squeak  in  the  dark.  Maggie  came  forth  with  three  can- 
dles in  her  hand,  and  Betty  thanked  her  volubly. 

Betty's  mother  came  into  her  room  and  kissed  her 
good-night.  Mother  and  daughter  occupied  adjoining 
rooms,  and,  finally,  Betty  was  alone. 

She  undressed  quickly,  took  her  cold  sponge  bath,  and 
hurried  into  her  night-dress.  Then  she  took  up  the  vol- 
ume of  Swinburne  and  turned  it  lovingly  in  her  hands. 
She  thought  of  lying  down  in  bed  and  reading,  with  a 


16  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

candle  beside  her  on  a  chair,  but  ultimately  she  shud- 
dered away  from  the  soft,  warm  embrace  of  pillows  and 
bedding,  and  sat  down  at  the  open  window,  the  candle  on 
the  window  ledge. 

The  night  was  distressingly  sultry.  Even  the  tiny 
flame  of  the  candle  seemed  to  give  out  quantities  of  heat. 
Millers,  with  wiry  wings,  and  white  moths,  with  wings 
like  swansdown,  fluttered  about,  attracted  by  the  flame 
of  the  candle.  With  the  protecting  wire  screen  between 
herself  and  these  denizens  of  the  air,  of  which  Betty 
had  all  the  average  young  girl's  horror,  she  felt  no 
alarm.  A  little  gray  moth  had  entered  the  room  through 
some  crack,  and  blindly  made  again  and  again  for  the 
light.  Betty  shooed  it  away. 

"Foolish  little  thing,"  she  said,  "go  away,  go  home; 
someone  is  waiting  for  you."  She  had  often  lured  one 
of  the  flimsy  things  away  from  destruction  with  the  same 
words,  varying  them  sometimes,  according  to  the  size 
of  the  moth,  with,  "Go  home,  your  mother  is  waiting  for 
you,"  or  "Go  home,  your  babies  are  waiting  for  you." 
But  to-night  Betty  added,  as  further  admonishment  to 
the  uncomprehending  moth,  "Go  home,  little  lady,  your 
husband  is  waiting  in  your  little  cool  nest  in  a  tree- 
twig." 

Having  prevented  disaster,  Betty  opened  the  precious 
volume  at  last  and  read.  She  read  through  the  entire 
length  of  three  candles.  She  read  all  of  Atalanta  in 
Calydon,  and  the  chorus  and  semi-chorus  she  went  over 
three  or  four  times,  until  she  had  them  by  heart,  for 
Betty  had  an  extraordinary  memory.  She  was  intox- 
icated, ravished  by  the  profusion  of  metaphors,  the 
wealth  of  language,  the  almost  Oriental  display  of  dic- 
tion. The  rhythm,  sophisticated  and  premeditated,  com- 
municated a  rhythm  to  her  pulses.  She  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  17 

Again  and  again  she  closed  the  volume  with  the 
intention  of  crawling  to  bed.  Again  and  again  she 
opened  it  haphazard  at  some  page,  only  to  stumble  upon 
some  new  beguilement,  some  new  allure.  The  last  poem 
she  read  was  Rococo,  and  then  she  tumbled  into  bed. 

Betty  did  not  understand  the  hidden  allusions,  the 
carefully  distilled  poison,  the  pulsing,  maddening  pas- 
sion of  the  poetry  she  had  read.  The  royal  garments  in 
which  the  thoughts  were  clothed  fascinated  and  mysti- 
fied her,  and  as  she  fell  asleep  isolated  lines  of  fragile 
beauty  kept  darting  through  her  mind: 


"Take  hands  and  part  with  laughter, 
Touch  lips  and  part  with  tears, 

Till  rose  leaves  of  December 
The  frosts  of  June  shall  fret." 


The  simple  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  Betty  was  in 
love.  When  that  term  is  employed,  it  is  usual  to  assume 
that  there  is  some  person  who  inspires  the  affections 
which  are  at  play.  Not  so.  All  young  girls  are  in  love 
in  the  abstract  before  some  concrete  image  of  a  man 
crystallizes  their  affections  and  absorbs  them.  No  one 
had  as  yet  focussed  Betty's  love.  It  was  still  a  half- 
wild,  half-tame  thing,  more  eager  to  be  caught  than  to 
escape. 

Betty  had  reached  and  passed  the  psychological  mo- 
ment that  night.  It  would  need  the  juice  of  no  magic 
herb,  dropped  upon  eye-lids,  to  imperil  her  freedom  of 
fancy.  Nature,  her  dormant  woman's  soul,  her  latent 
woman's  need,  a  romantic  imagination  were  the  magic 
which  would  compass  the  transformation  for  which 
Oberon  required  the  juice  of  the  mystic  herb. 


18  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"The  next  thing  that  she  waking  looks  upon, 
Be  it  on  lion,  bear  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape, 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love." 

Betty  slept  at  last,  and  dreamed  of  phantom  kisses, 
intangible  hand  clasps  and  a  ghostly  face  indistin- 
guishable from  the  mists  in  which  it  was  swathed. 


CHAPTER  II 

Betty's  window  faced  the  East,  and  at  half  past  four 
in  the  morning  her  little  room  was  filled  brimful  with 
light.  Her  mother  gently  pushed  open  the  door,  noise- 
lessly crossed  the  room  and  as  noiselessly  closed  the 
outer  shutters,  adjusting  them  so  that  they  admitted  the 
air  but  screened  away  the  light. 

Mrs.  Garside  was  a  tall,  dark  woman  of  forty.  Peo- 
ple said  of  her,  "What  a  handsome  woman  she  must 
have  been  once."  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  ruin  was 
far  more  beautiful  than  the  edifice  had  been  in  its  palmy 
days.  She  had  married  a  man  far  handsomer  than  her- 
self, a  step  always  more  or  less  dangerous  for  any  woman 
to  take,  and  she  had  eaten  her  heart  out  ever  since. 
Betty's  father  had  been  a  gambler,  a  card-cheat,  a  pro- 
fessional poker  player.  His  offenses  had  not  ended 
there.  When  Betty  was  a  year  old  he  helped  himself  to 
the  till  of  the  firm  that  employed  him  as  Cashier  and 
disappeared. 

The  world  commiserated  the  deserted  wife,  but  Mrs. 
Garside,  whatever  regrets  decency  bade  her  express,  was 
clandestinely  jubilant  to  be  rid  of  her  husband.  Those 
offenses  of  his  of  which  the  world  had  cognizance  were 
mere  bagatelles  compared  to  the  crowning  misery  he  had 
inflicted  on  his  wife.  He  was  a  libertine  of  the  most 
unbridled  and  perverted  tastes,  and  the  young  couple 
had  not  lived  together  a  month  before  the  young  wife 
was  utterly  disillusioned  as  to  the  character  of  the  man 
she  had  married. 

Mrs.  Garside  had  married  her  husband  in  opposition 

19 


to  the  wishes  of  her  friends  and  family.  She  had  broken 
with  them  because  of  her  marriage.  On  realizing  that 
they  had  been  right  and  she  wrong  in  the  estimate 
formed  of  him,  pride  had  kept  her  from  appealing  to 
them  for  advice  and  assistance.  She  refused  to  live 
with  her  husband.  She  hated  him  bitterly  after  the 
few  short  weeks  she  had  lived  with  him.  When  finally 
he  absconded  her  pride  had  become  so  threadbare  and 
shabby  from  constant  abrasion  that  it  tore  into  a  thou- 
sand flimsy  ribbons. 

All  she  had  to  rely  upon  for  maintenance  of  herself 
and  her  child  was  an  income  of  four  hundred  dollars  in 
bonds  which  she  had  inherited  from  her  father.  But 
four  hundred  dollars  is  not  sufficient  to  decently  support 
two  persons,  no  matter  how  humble  and  frugal  their 
mode  of  living,  and  Mrs.  Garside  turned  a  naturally 
versatile  genius  to  many  odd  shifts  in  the  business  of 
making  a  living.  She  gave  piano  lessons,  she  sewed 
dresses,  she  embroidered  for  department  stores,  she 
wrote  paragraphs  for  the  Sunday  papers.  In  her  leisure 
moments  she  attended  to  her  housekeeping  and  her  little 
daughter's  clothes.  Her  energy  was  unremitting.  Some 
years  she  scraped  along  for  months  at  a  time  on  barely 
nothing,  but  she  did  not  touch  her  capital.  To  eat  into 
her  small  capital  would  have  seemed  to  this  extraordinary 
woman  not  merely  the  height  of  imprudence  but  an  act 
of  treachery  toward  her  child.  What  had  most  im- 
pressed her  about  the  absconding  of  her  husband  was 
not  the  man's  baseness  so  much  as  her  own  stupidity  in 
having  trusted  a  man  of  such  calibre.  She  nourished 
a  very  robust  self  contempt  for  her  powers  of  observa- 
tion in  the  past,  and  having  made  the  pivotal  mistake 
in  her  woman's  career,  she  meant  to  redeem  herself  in 
her  own  eyes  by  redoubled  prudence  in  the  future. 
i  The  injury  she  had  sustained,  as  she  blamed  her  own 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  21 

lack  of  insight  for  it  primarily,  neither  soured  nor  em- 
bittered her.  It  made  her  shrewd.  From  a  sentimental, 
romantic,  emotional  girl  she  transformed  herself  in  the 
year  following  her  marriage  into  cold,  calculating,  dis- 
passionate woman.  When  Betty  was  four  years  old  her 
mother  flattered  herself  that  there  was  not  a  grain  of 
sentiment  left  in  her,  except  her  mother  love.  Yet,  in 
her  new  outlook  upon  life,  maternity  did  not  assume 
its  usual  aspect  with  her.  No  coddling,  crooning,  pet- 
ting of  her  baby,  no  straining  to  her  heart  of  the  ador- 
able youngster.  Sentiment,  running  wild,  had  wrecked 
her  life.  She  meant  to  bring  up  her  child  in  ignorance 
of  the  softer  emotions.  She  meant  to  harden  her 
child  spiritually  by  apparent  diffidence  and  lack  of  en- 
dearments, as  physicians  harden  a  weak  throat  by 
exposing  it  to  the  chill  blasts  of  winter.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  Mrs.  Garside  that  by  starving  her  child's  emo- 
tional nature,  she  might  be  sowing  the  seeds  of  a 
catastrophe  far  exceeding  her  own  shipwreck. 

The  distorted  lenses  through  which  she  now  viewed 
life  seemed  to  her  a  corrective  of  her  former  vision, 
and  made  her  ruthlessly  pluck  up  the  charming  flowers 
of  romance  that  grow  along  the  path  of  the  humblest. 
She  meant  to  play  destiny  to  Betty,  with  mathematical 
precision.  She  hardly  ever  kissed  the  child,  lest  she 
awaken  Betty's  emotional  nature.  When  she  kissed  her 
child's  rose  petal  lips,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
pilfering  sweets  and  succumbing  to  temptation.  At 
night  she  sometimes  sat  beside  the  sleeping  child,  kissing 
the  black  curls,  the  dimpled,  chubby  hands,  and  the 
snowy  brow.  One  night  Betty  had  been  awakened  by 
these  secret  ministrations,  and  half  asleep,  wound  her 
arms  about  her  mother's  neck. 

"Why  don't  you  kiss  me  oftener,  Mother?"  she  asked, 
and  was  off  again  for  the  Land  of  Nod. 


22  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Mrs.  Garside's  object,  of  course,  in  eliminating  from 
Betty's  life  the  emotional  side  of  life,  was  to  prepare 
her,  to  win  her  into  acquiescence  in  advance,  for  a 
match  which  Mrs.  Garside  would  arrange  for  her  in 
due  time.  No  princess  of  the  blood  was  more  carefully 
chaperoned  and  taught,  or  more  carefully  groomed  and 
manicured  than  Betty.  She  had  a  talent  for  music,  and 
Mrs.  Garside  was  determined  that  Betty  should  make 
the  most  of  this  natural  gift,  which,  she  argued,  would 
add  to  her  attractiveness.  Nothing  was  omitted  from 
the  curriculum  that  might  add  to  Betty's  market  value. 
More  money  was  needed,  after  Betty  was  sixteen,  and 
Mrs.  Garside  converted  her  bonds  into  copper  mine 
stocks,  paying  a  higher  interest.  But  even  with  this 
increment,  the  income  was  inadequate,  and  it  became 
necessary  to  touch  the  capital.  Mrs.  Garside  spent  nights 
in  figuring  out  her  campaign.  There  was  enough  money 
to  last  them  until  Betty  would  be  twenty-two  years  old, 
and  the  mother  calculated  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  a 
husband  would  be  found  before  then  for  a  girl  as  ex- 
quisite as  Betty. 

Of  Betty's  exquisiteness  there  could  be  no  doubt,  Mrs. 
Garside  reflected,  as  she  sat  at  her  daughter's  bedside 
that  sultry  August  morning.  Betty's  charm  was  not 
the  charm  of  the  wild  flower,  of  which  so  much  has 
been  said  and  written.  Hers  was  the  charm  of  the 
highly  cultivated  white  rose,  and  it  was  her  exquisiteness, 
her  preciousness,  even  more  than  her  beauty  which 
startled  every  chance  acquaintance  into  looking  at  her  a 
second,  or  even  a  third  time. 

Mrs.  Garside's  campaign  had  not  miscarried.  She  had 
not  aimed  too  high,  being  a  shrewd  woman,  and  she  felt 
more  contentment  than  she  had  felt  in  years  as  she  sat 
looking  at  the  sleeping  girl.  Betty's  future  was  secure, 
unless  Betty  proved  recalcitrant,  and  why  should  Betty 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  23 

not  be  amenable,  Betty,  who  knew  nothing  of  love  and 
sentiment  and  demonstrativeness  ?  Of  the  delectable  an- 
tidote to  the  maternal  system  which  Betty  had  imbibed 
the  night  before,  Mrs.  Garside  knew  nothing,  for  the 
volume  lay  hidden  from  sight  under  Betty's  pillow.  She 
sat  beside  sleeping  Betty  for  two  hours,  and  for  each 
moment  of  those  two  hours  the  woman  thrilled  and 
glowed  with  the  maternal  fires  within  her,  unquenched 
and  unextinguished  by  puerile  fondling  of  her  offspring. 

Betty  awoke  at  seven,  a  half  hour  before  the  rising 
bell;  awoke  without  seeing  her  mother  from  whom  she 
had  turned  in  her  sleep,  awoke  to  the  delicious  languor 
of  stretching  and  purring  in  bed,  like  a  kitten,  to  shake 
the  leaden  mantle  of  sleep  from  her  limbs. 

"Betty,"  said  Mrs.  Garside. 

"Mother,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  want  you  to  dress  as  quickly  as  possible,  Betty. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you  before  breakfast." 

"What's  happened,  Mother?" 

"Something  of  prime  importance." 

"Oh,  Mother,  tell  me  what.  It  isn't  the  copper  mine, 
is  it?  Stocks  haven't  jumped  to  par,  have  they?" 

"No,  but  my  Betty  has  jumped  to  par." 

"Now,  what  can  you  mean?" 

"Last  night,  Mr.  Pidgin  asked  me  for  an  interview 
at  twelve  to-day.  That  means  that  he  is  going  to  offer 
himself." 

"What  have  I  got  to  do  with  that  ?  Oh,  a  stepfather, 
and  Fatty  Pidgin  !  Oh,  Mother,  how  can  you  ?" 

"Not  a  stepfather,  but  a  husband  for  you,  Betty." 

Betty  stared  hard. 

"Has  he  got  a  son?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  pretend  to  misunderstand  me,  Betty." 

"You  cannot  mean " 

"Precisely." 


M  THE    VOICE   OF    THE    HEART 

"Never." 

"You  must." 

"I  won't." 

"Betty!" 

"Mother!" 

Mrs.  Garside  looked  at  her  daughter  in  perplexity. 
She  felt  a  sudden  faintness  overwhelm  her. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  anyone?"  she  demanded. 

"Goodness  gracious,  of  course  not.  How  very  funny. 
But  I  cannot  marry  Fatty  Pidgin,  Mother.  Why,  it's 
a  joke.  The  girls  would  all  laugh  at  me." 

"Laughter  is  frequently  a  mask  to  hide  envy." 

But,  no  matter  how  neatly  turned  and  how  appro- 
priate, no  epigram  had  power  to  move  Betty  from  her 
decision.  Driven  hard,  making  no  headway  against  the 
child's  sudden  waywardness,  Mrs.  Garside  had  horrid 
visions  of  the  carefully  planned  golden  circle  of  Betty's 
life  being  distorted  into  an  impossible  ellipse. 

"Mr.  Pidgin  is  a  wealthy  man.  He  has  twenty-five 
thousand  a  year." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything,  you  are  a  poor  girl." 

"Well,  if  you  wish  me  to  marry  money,  there  are 
other  rich  men,  nearer  my  own  age.  I  won't,  positively, 
I  won't  marry  Mr.  Pidgin." 

Betty  looked  unutterably  disgusted.  Louise's  remark 
flashed  back  to  her,  "You  don't  suppose  a  man  marries 
a  girl  just  to  decorate  his  breakfast  table?"  Her  dis- 
gust changed  to  open  revolt.  Her  mother,  determined  to 
quell  her  daughter's  rebelliousness,  threw  caution  to  the 
winds.  It  had  been  part  of  the  system  to  chaperone 
Betty  so  closely  that  she  could  afford  to  dispense  with  a 
good  deal  of  miscellaneous  knowledge  with  which  some 
latter-day  parents  think  it  desirable  to  acquaint  their 
daughters.  She  had  feared,  by  making  Betty  self-con- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  25 

scious  or  shrewd,  to  rob  her  of  some  of  the  virginal 
charm  which  is  one  of  the  chief  enhancements  of  youth- 
ful attractiveness.  Now,  in  one  gusty  interview,  she 
would  have  to  rob  Betty  of  many,  perhaps  of  all  illusions. 

"Listen  to  me,  Betty.  Mr.  Pidgin  has  very  much  more 
to  offer  you  than  I  had  dared  hope  for.  He  is  a  very 
desirable  parti." 

Betty  vaulted  from  the  bed,  and  began  unplaiting  her 
hair. 

"Mr.  Pidgin  is  forty,  if  he  is  a  day,"  she  commented. 

"If  he  were  younger,  with  his  income,  he  would  be 
enjoying  himself  at  some  fashionable  place,  and  he  would 
never  have  seen  you." 

"Mother,  you  speak  of  me  as  if  I  were  a  commodity." 

"That  is  precisely  what  you  are." 

Betty  flushed  furiously.  Her  dark  eyes  sparkled,  she 
shook  her  head  indignantly.  The  black  curls  fell  into 
more  graceful  lines  about  the  wonderfully  well-bred, 
aristocratic  face. 

"It's  unthinkable,  Mother.    I  can't." 

Betty  did  not  raise  her  voice.  Her  aristocratic  man- 
ner was  never  more  apparent  than  when  she  was  angry. 
And  she  was  now  more  angry  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
all  her  life. 

"It  is  not  unthinkable." 

"I  do  not  love  him." 

''The  statement  is  quite  unnecessary,  my  child.  I 
credit  you  with  far  too  much  taste  and  good  sense  to 
imagine  that  you  do." 

"You  do  not  wish  me  to  marry  a  man  I  hate  ?" 

"It  does  not  follow  that  you  hate  Mr.  Pidgin  because 
you  do  not  happen  to  love  him." 

"If  I  marry  him,  I  shall  hate  him." 

"Betty,  my  dear,  only  the  very  rich  and  the  very  poor 
woman  can  afford  to  indulge  her  own  taste  in  marrying. 


26  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

I  must  speak  frankly,  Betty,  and  my  frankness  will  seem 
brutal  to  you.  You  may  rave  and  rant  as  much  as  you 
like.  I  brought  you  up  to  be  married  to  the  first  eligible 
man  who  wanted  you,  and  marry  him  you  will  and 
shall." 

There  was  an  ominous  pause.  Betty  furiously  brushed 
and  combed  her  hair,  which,  tightly  curled  from  its 
recent  proximity  to  the  warmth  of  Betty's  head,  snarled 
about  her  fingers  in  serpentine  twists.  Suddenly  she 
threw  the  brush  upon  the  bed,  and  demanded  indig- 
nantly : 

"You  brought  me  up  for  that?  You  brought  me  up 
for  the  purpose  of  marrying  me  off?  Why,  it's  legit- 
imized prostitution." 

Whence  had  this  wisdom  come  so  suddenly?  Her 
mother  questioned  Betty  with  her  eyes,  and  Betty  ques- 
tioned her  mother  in  return  in  the  same  mute  way.  Some 
chance-spoken  phrase  by  a  chance  acquaintance,  over- 
heard heaven-knows-where,  had  leapt  into  her  brain  and 
exploded  the  cauldron  of  her  anger. 

"Legitimized  prostitution,"  she  repeated,  with  a  lit- 
tle gasp  to  cover  her  confusion  and  show  that  she  was 
not  ashamed  of  having  spoken  the  words.  "I  refuse  to 
marry  him." 

"I  am  glad  that  your  knowledge  of  certain  phases  of 
life  enables  me  to  speak  with  absolute  candor,"  said  Mrs. 
Garside,  icily.  "Some  imbecile  invented  the  phrase  which 
you  have  just  used.  The  phrase  negatives  itself.  It 
contradicts  itself.  The  word  'prostitute'  implies  that 
woman  has  given  some  man  a  husband's  privileges  with- 
out being  his  wife  in  return  for  money.  A  woman  who 
does  that  is  a  fool,  because  there  is  no  woman  alive 
who,  if  she  plays  her  cards  properly,  cannot  obtain  both 
the  status  of  a  wife  and  the  money  which  a  wife  re- 
ceives in  return  for  said  privileges.  Do  you  follow  me  ?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  27 

"Yes,"  said  Betty  thickly.  She  hid  her  blushes  be- 
hind the  screen  of  hair  that  was  falling  about  her  face 
like  a  mantle. 

"That  is  why  a  prostitute  is  scorned  so  much  more 
by  women  than  by  men.  It  is  commonly  said  that  men 
are  kinder-hearted,  because  a  man  more  easily  than  a 
woman  will  forgive  a  woman  who  has  gone  wrong.  That 
is  not  true.  They  condone  the  fault  more  readily,  be- 
cause as  a  class,  they  are  not  injured  by  a  fallen  woman. 

"Marriage  is  the  one,  unfailing  profession  for  a 
woman.  It  is  the  one  profession  in  which  woman,  self- 
evidently,  need  not  fear  the  rivalry  of  man.  But  all  vir- 
tuous women,  married  or,  unmarried,  fear  the  rivalry 
of  the  prostitute,  because  the  prostitute  sells  for  a  very 
trifling"  return  an  asset  which  history,  custom,  religion, 
civic  spirit  and  man's  chivalry  have  constituted,  in  the 
hands  of  a  clever  woman,  an  incomparable  and  inval- 
uable asset.  It  is  not  the  offense  against  morality  so 
much  as  the  offense  against  the  class  interest  of  woman 
as  woman,  that  so  enfuriates  the  average  respectable 
woman  when  she  sees  a  fallen  sister.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty.  She  had  finished  combing  her  hair, 
and  was  piling  it  up  in  rippling  tiers.  This  commercial 
aspect  of  marriage  made  the  burning  words  which  she 
had  read  the  night  before  seem  incredibly  remote.  She 
had  always  known  that  her  mother  was  a  competent 
woman, — but  she  had  never  suspected  her  of  being  a 
clever  one,  and  her  mother's  sudden  conversational 
prowess  amazed  and  impressed  her  exceedingly. 

"Every  woman  sells  herself  as  dearly  as  possible," 
her  mother  continued,  "for  marriage  is  always  a  pur- 
chase. Some  women  sell  themselves  for  love,  some  for 
money,  some  for  position,  some  for  power." 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  can  call  a  love  marriage  a  sale," 


28  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

said  Betty.  "Love  for  love,  that  is  fair  and  square  and 
honest." 

"Is  it?  It  means  that  the  woman  gets  what  she  most 
desires  in  return  for  herself.  If  she  desires  love  more 
than  anything  else,  she  sells  herself  for  love, — a  most 
perishable  return  for  a  perishable  asset." 

"It  is  awful  to  hear  you  talking  of  love  like  that,"  said 
Betty  sombrely.  Her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"I  married  for  love,  Betty." 

"Not  all  love  marriages  turn  out  as  unfortunately  as 
yours,  Mother." 

Mrs.  Garside  winced. 

''Not  all,  but  a  good  many  do.  Betty,  I  have  known 
many  married  women  in  the  course  of  my  life.  I  am 
not  exaggerating  when  I  say  that  out  of  every  ten  mar- 
ried women  nine  would  embrace  freedom  with  prayers 
of  gratitude  providing  they  could  retain  their  children, 
the  status  of  a  married  woman  and  their  share  of  the 
income  which  their  husbands  hand  over  to  them  on 
Saturday  night." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"You  will,  when  you  are  a  little  older.  At  your  age, 
my  child,  we  think  that  a  smiling  face  hides  a  smiling 
heart.  But  women  smile  for  many  reasons.  They  smile 
because  pride  bids  them  hide  their  disappointment,  or 
from  an  unselfish  desire  to  cloak  their  pain,  or  merely 
from  a  sense  of  decency.  But  the  average  married 
woman  is  not  happy." 

"Why  then  marry  at  all?"  demanded  Betty. 

"Because  the  unmarried  woman  is  still  unhappier," 
said  Mrs.  Garside.  "The  unmarried  woman  almost  in- 
variably longs  for  the  status  of  marriage.  Pride  in  the 
status  of  being  married,  that  is  pride  that  some  man  has 
been  willing  to  shoulder  the  responsibility  of  her  sup- 
port, is  one  of  the  tricks  to  which  the  married  woman 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  29 

has  resorted  as  an  offset  for  her  unhappiness.  Her  fail- 
ure to  attain  that  position  seems  to  the  unmarried  a 
shameful  thing.  The  desire  to  be  loved  is  nothing  but 
injured  vanity,  although  it  is  the  fashion  to  ascribe  this 
desire  to  sentimental  reasons.  Then,  of  course,  the  bur- 
den of  self-support  rests  on  her  shoulders.  In  these 
two  points  the  married  sister  is  more  fortunate  than  her 
unmarried  sister,  and  in  addition  she  has  her  children. 
And  the  joys  of  motherhood,  Betty,  compensate  for  and 
reconcile  a  woman  to  much." 

"I  do  not  see  how  a  woman  can  love  her  children  if 
she  does  not  love  her  husband,"  Betty  said  bluntly.  "Be- 
sides, I  do  not  like  children." 

Betty  spoke  the  truth.  Young  children  were  offensive 
to  her.  Dainty  youngsters  of  over  three  or  four,  clad 
in  fine  raiment  and  freshly  washed,  she  thought  ador- 
able. They  were  ,so  decorative.  But  infants  revolted 
her.  The  slobbery  bibs,  the  squirming  red  hands,  the 
wrinkled  red  monkey  faces  nauseated  her.  It  is  a  feel- 
ing not  unusual  among  girls  of  unemotional  natures  in 
whom  the  sex  instinct,  and  consequently  the  mother 
impulse,  which  is  merely  an  extension  or  modification  of 
the  sex  instinct,  is  either  latent  or  atrophied. 

"You  would  like  your  own,"  said  Mrs.  Garside. 

"I  don't  want  children."  Betty's  face  was  crimson. 
"Mother,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  truth."  She  paused, 
as  if  the  truth  with  which  she  was  threatening  her 
mother  was  a  gigantic  horror.  "I  wouldn't  marry  any 
man  who  wants  children.  I  wouldn't  marry  anyone  un- 
less I  knew  that  he  was  the  right  sort  of  man, — I  mean 
a  man  who  wouldn't  insist  on  having  that  sort  of  re- 
lations with  his  wife." 

"What?"  Mrs.  Garside  fairly  gasped.  "There  are  no 
men  of  that  sort."  She  was  appalled  by  her  child's 
abysmal  innocence. 


30  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Betty  retorted  in  the  hard,  brittle 
tone  of  youth  when  youth's  fondest  dreams  are  ques- 
tioned. "I  am  sure  there  are.  I  know  there  are." 

"Know?" 

"Mother,  there  are  lots  of  young  couples  now-a-days 
who  have  no  children."  Betty's  tone  was  the  tone  in 
which  the  young  launch  an  unanswerable  argument. 

Mrs.  Garside's  amazement  eclipsed  the  amazement  she 
had  felt  a  moment  before.  She  said  very  quietly, 

"That  probably  just  happened  so,  Betty."  She  wanted 
to  say  more,  but  when  she  looked  at  Betty's  pale,  fine 
face,  her  resolution  flickered  away. 

"You  mean ?"  said  Betty. 

"Yes,  dear." 

Betty  said  no  more.  Her  lips  compressed  themselves 
into  a  straight,  firm  line.  It  was  plain  that  she  still 
held  to  her  preposterous  belief  in  the  sexlessness  of  man 
in  isolated  instances. 

Betty  was  entirely  dressed  now,  except  that  she  had 
not  yet  slipped  on  her  dress.  She  stood,  in  filmy  white 
petticoat  and  underdress,  a  vision  of  entrancing  love- 
liness, her  merciless  young  eyes  fixed  with  passionate 
intensity  upon  her  mother's  face,  on  which  showed  alarm 
and  determination.  The  mother  and  daughter  stood  thus 
confronting  each  other;  each  was  sincere,  each  deter- 
mined to  have  her  own  way.  If  the  daughter  had 
found  the  mother  more  clever  than  she  had  suspected  a 
little  earlier  in  the  interview,  the  mother  was  now 
aghast  at  the  extraordinary  mixture  of  thoughts  inhabit- 
ing her  daughter's  head;  such  unbelievable  ignorance 
existing  side  by  side  with  a  dangerous  temerity  of  speech 
was  assuredly  most  unusual. 

Mother  and  daughter  had  lived  in  close  proximity  to 
each  other.  Now,  to  their  surprise,  they  found  that  in 
one  of  the  great  vital  matters  of  life  they  were  strangers. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  31 

Neither  could  understand  the  other's  viewpoint,  neither 
could  sympathize  with  the  other's  outlook.  To  the 
mother  there  was  pathos  inconceivable  in  the  situation, 
and  the  pang  it  occasioned  her  was  a  spiritual  birthpang. 
Her  child,  by  her  sudden  assumption  of  independence 
in  thought  and  independent  emotion  had  wrested  herself 
away  from  the  mother  organism.  Pathos  too,  for  the 
mother,  was  in  the  pitiful  clinging  of  the  daughter  to  her 
own  fantastic  belief  in  her  ideal  of  manhood. 

The  mother  felt  that  at  all  costs  she  must  show  her 
child  the  irresponsibility  of  the  emotions.  The  daughter 
felt  a  sort  of  contemptuous  pity  for  the  mother  who  at 
forty  had  so  completely  forgotten  the  feelings  of 
eighteen. 

"At  any  rate,"  Betty  said,  "I  won't  marry  a  man  I 
do  not  love.  Not  if  he  were  as  rich  as  John  D." 

Mrs.  Garside  took  heart.  Perhaps  Betty's  imbecile 
belief  had  sprung  merely  from  the  lips,  not  from  con- 
victions. Girls,  to  save  their  modesty,  as  Mrs.  Garside 
remembered,  make  unaccountable  statements  sometimes. 
The  child  possibly  was  equipped  with  the  normal  in- 
stincts of  womanhood  after  all. 

"Betty,"  she  said  gravely,  "a  woman  simply  must 
learn  to  restrain  her  likes  and  dislikes.  Let  me  remind 
you  of  an  episode  of  your  childhood,  which  you  have 
probably  forgotten. 

"You  detested  carrots.  They  agreed  with  you  per- 
fectly, but  you  refused  to  eat  them.  The  average  mother 
would  have  said  to  herself :  There  are  lots  of  whole- 
some vegetables  which  the  child  likes.  I  will  not  force 
her  to  eat  what  she  does  not  care  for.'  I  realized,  how- 
ever, that  life  is  made  up  largely  of  having  to  do  and 
endure  unpleasant  things,  and  I  felt  that  the  sooner  I 
taught  you  to  restrain  yourself  and  to  control  your  likes 
and  dislikes,  the  better  for  you.  So  I  promised  you  a 


32  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

gold  watch  if  you  would  learn  to  eat  a  small  dish  of  car- 
rots twice  a  week  with  good  grace.  Because  you  wanted 
the  watch,  you  taught  yourself  to  eat  the  carrots,  and  I 
noticed  that  now,  since  you  are  a  grown-up  young 
woman,  you  eat  them  when  they  are  served  as  if  you 
relished  them. 

"Now,  my  Betty,  I  want  you  to  regard  the  marriage 
which  appears  so  odious  to  you  in  much  the  same  way 
as  a  dish  you  dislike,  but  which,  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
pediency, you  partake  of  twice  or  thrice  a  week.  The 
test  of  true  breeding  is  not  merely  to  enjoy  what  we  like 
in  moderation,  but  to  endure  what  we  detest  with  good 
grace.  I  would  not  ask  you  to  marry  a  man  who  was  a 
profligate  or  no  gentleman.  But  Mr.  Pidgin  is  a  gentle- 
man, and  he  will  not  make  things  unduly  hard  for  you." 

Betty  said  in  a  still,  frightened  voice : 

"Mother,  I  cannot.  His  hands  are  so  horrible.  You 
know  how  I  am  about  a  person's  hands,  mother." 

Betty  might  have  forgiven  Mr.  Pidgin's  avoirdupois, 
and  general  ungainliness.  But  she  could  not  condone  his 
red,  rough,  coarse  hands.  She  had  all  the  aristocrat's 
horror  of  an  unprepossessing  hand.  She  read  in  the 
hand  an  index  of  its  owner's  mentality,  moral  fibre  and 
everything  else. 

"And  then "  Betty  continued,  and  stopped,  shrink- 
ing from  giving  expression  to  her  thought.  She  was 
thinking  in  monosyllables  now.  She  could  not  find 
seemly  words  to  express  the  ineffable  disgust  aroused  in 
her  by  the  odor  of  tobacco  and  spirituous  liquors  which 
clung  about  this  man. 

"I  cannot  marry  him,  that's  all "  Betty  resumed. 

"The  thought  of  having  to  let  him  kiss  me — the  whole 
business — Oh,  it's  odious!" 

"Betty,  a  nice  girl  does  not  anticipate  the  intimacies 
of  marriage  in  imagination." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  33 

"Kisses, — are  they  the  intimacies  of  marriage?"  Betty 
demanded  with  fine  sarcasm.  "They  are  the  intimacies 
of  courtship,  too.  Besides,  you  yourself  spoke  of  the 
joys  of  motherhood.  What  are  they  but  intimacies  of 
marriage,  I  would  like  to  know?" 

Young  Diane  outraged  in  her  modesty,  Psyche 
dragged  to  mundane  planes  by  some  would-be  earthly 
lover,  could  not  have  presented  a  more  indignant  ex- 
terior. 

"If  I  spoke  of  the  joys  of  a  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Gar- 
side,  "I  did  so  because  the  maternal  passion  is  the  strong- 
est passion  on  earth." 

Betty  looked  sharply  at  her  mother.  Some  quaver  in 
her  voice,  some  trembling  of  her  lip,  moved  the  girl  to 
quick  compassion.  She  did  what  she  had  never  done 
before  in  all  her  life.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  before 
her  mother. 

"Mother,"  she  cried,  "isn't  filial  love  as  strong?  I 
love  you  very  dearly." 

"Filial  love."  Mrs.  Garside  spoke  scornfully.  "When 
I  was  your  age,  Betty,  I  thought  no  love  was  stronger. 
Then  came  love  for  my  husband  and  the  other  receded 
and  became  dim.  And  now,  child,  I  know  there  is 
only  one  passion  on  earth  worthy  of  the  name — maternal 
love." 

"That's  because  the  others  are  so  long  past,"  Betty 
said  tenderly. 

Mrs.  Garside  said  no  more.  She  did  not  care  to  pur- 
sue the  subject  with  Betty.  One  of  the  tragedies  of 
parentage  is  the  discovery  of  the  axiom  upon  which 
nature  plans  and  builds  her  economies,  the  fundamental 
fact  that  each  generation,  bound  hand  and  foot  by  na- 
ture, must  love  its  own  offspring  more  than  it  loves 
its  parents. 

"Ah,  Betty,  Betty,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Garside.    "I  would 


34  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

give  the  very  blood  of  my  body  to  know  that  your  future 
is  secure." 

"And  I,  Mother,  I  would  beg,  starve  or  work  for  you. 
But  I  will  not  barter  myself  in  marriage." 

"Beg,  starve  or  work — you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying." 

"I  do,  I  do,"  Betty  flung  back  impetuously.  "I  know 
that  not  one  of  the  three  would  come  easy  to  me.  But 
anything,  anything  is  better  than  losing  one's  self-respect 
and  the  hope  of  happiness.  Oh,  Mother,  Mother,  I  want 
my  happiness  and  I  will  have  it." 

She  stood  before  her  mother,  her  beautiful,  strong 
young  arms  crossed  above  the  glorious  young  bosom,  her 
clenched  hands  forming  a  pillow  for  the  finely  sculptured 
chin. 

"I  want  my  happiness,"  she  repeated.  "And  I  will 
not  be  coerced  into  certain  unhappiness.  I  have  the  right 
to  take  my  happiness  where  I  can  find  it.  And  I  will 
find  it.  And  I  will,  I  will." 

"Betty,  Betty,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  absolute  un- 
happiness," the  mother  entreated.  "There  is  a  law  of 
compensation  for  everything  that  we  enjoy.  For  every- 
one of  the  desirable  things  of  life  we  have  to  pay  by  fore- 
going some  other  advantage.  If  I  could  only  make  you 
see  it  with  my  eyes.  Betty,  love  lasts  only  a  little  while 
— it  wears  away,  even  in  the  happiest  marriages.  But 
money  remains.  And  money  means  so  much.  Instead  of 
the  momentary  intoxication  of  love,  you  secure  a  pleas- 
ant and  care-free  future." 

There  was  a  pause.  Betty  slipped  into  her  dress,  but 
without  troubling  to  button  it,  sat  limply  upon  the  bed. 

"You  are  cursed  with  a  taste  for  the  best  things, 
Betty,"  Mrs.  Garside  continued.  "You  love  pictures, 
books,  good  music.  Oh,  my  Betty,  I  wish  I  had  a 
golden  tongue  to  make  you  see  all  this  as  I  see  it.  Don't 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  35 

chase  after  a  rainbow,  Betty.  There  is  a  greater  dif- 
ference between  the  life  which  a  woman  of  culture 
lives  who  has  means  to  indulge  her  tastes  for  the  refined 
and  beautiful  things  of  life  and  the  life  which  a  poor 
man's  wife  lives,  than  there  is  between  the  life  of  that 
poor  man's  wife  and  the  life  of  an  animal." 

Betty  jerked  herself  further  into  her  dress,  and  began 
buttoning  it.  Suddenly  she  sat  down  again,  as  if  ex- 
hausted by  the  effort.  Her  face  wore  an  indescribable 
expression,  an  expression  in  which  were  mingled  disgust, 
alarm  and  weakening  of  purpose.  The  effect  of  her 
mother's  words  were  beginning  to  tell  on  her. 

Mrs.  Garside  continued : 

"You  assure  me  you  are  not  in  love.  If  I  did  not 
know  you  to  be  truthful,  I  would  not  believe  you,  be- 
cause of  your  obstinate  opposition.  Betty,  child,  there 
are  thousands  of  women  to  whom  love,  meaning  pas- 
sion, never  comes.  I  wish,  dear,  you  would  have  under- 
stood this  without  being  told  by  me.  Most  girls  do.  I 
think,  from  what  you  said  before,  that  you  may  be  one 
of  the  women  who  are  temperamentally  incapable  of 
feeling  what  is  commonly  designated  as  love." 

Betty  clenched  her  fists.  Her  mother  ignored  the  dan- 
ger signal. 

"Then  again,  yours  may  be  an  emotional  nature.  It 
seems  curious,  that  I,  your  mother,  should  know  so  little 
about  my  own  child.  I  must  grope  in  the  dark  in  arguing 
with  you. 

"And  if  you  have  temperament,  Betty,  has  it  occurred 
to  you  that  you  may  never  meet  the  right  man  ?  What 
is  all  this  talk  about  the  one  man  and  the  one  woman? 
You  are  an  intelligent  girl.  Granting  then,  for  the  sake 
of  argument,  that  every  one  has  an  affinity,  is  it  likely  that 
out  of  the  millions  of  young  men  in  the  world  precisely 
the  right  man  is  going  to  walk  into  your  life  at  the  right 


36  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

moment  ?  What  is  termed  'love'  is  nature.  Few  women, 
few  men  for  that  matter,  see  perfection  in  their  life- 
partners.  Women,  more  than  men,  to  save  their  self- 
respect  and  pride,  cloak  their  coldness  of  feeling  under 
pretty  phrases  invented  for  the  purpose.  They  speak 
of  respect  and  affection,  and  in  truth,  my  Betty,  some 
sense  and  meaning  lurks  behind  these  terms.  One  thing 
is  certain.  To  the  woman  who  has  passionately  loved 
her  husband  and  to  the  woman  who  has  regarded  her 
spouse  with  coldness,  love  in  a  few  years  simply  re- 
solves itself  into  a  sense  of  conjugal  duty.  I  have  heard 
this  too  often,  Betty,  not  to  know." 

Betty  sighed  deeply,  and  rising,  buttoned  her  dress 
methodically. 

"Will  you  think  it  over,  Betty?" 

"Very  well — but  that  is  not  a  promise." 

"Very  good.  You  had  better  not  come  down  for 
breakfast.  It  might  be  awkward  for  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Pidgin  before  everything  is  arranged.  I  will  say  you 
have  a  headache." 

"But  I  haven't,"  said  Betty.  "And  I'm  as  hungry  as 
a  wolf." 

"Well,  it  won't  hurt  you  to  go  without  your  break- 
fast this  once.  It  may  do  you  good.  I  think  you  have 
gained  a  little  since  we  came  here.  I  don't  want  you 
to  lose  your  sylph-like  slimness.  Your  waistline  looks 
a  little  larger." 

"If  I'm  to  marry  Mr.  Pidgin,"  Betty  pouted,  "I  don't 
see  that  it  matters  whether  my  waistline  is  nineteen  or 
twenty-nine.  He  would  have  no  right  to  complain  if  it 
were  thirty-nine." 

Mrs.  Garside  laughed.  Betty's  pleasantry  promised 
well. 

"After  breakfast,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  out  of  the 
way.  Go  over  to  the  stable  loft  and  practice."  The 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  37 

piano  for  practice  purposes  was  kept  in  this  singular 
place  so  that  the  occupants  of  the  house  would  not  be 
disturbed  by  the  noise.  "I  have  ordered  some  new 
music  from  Telfer's.  They  have  desk  room  in  the  drug- 
store at  the  village  this  year,  you  know,  and  the  young 
man  in  charge  promised  to  have  it  up  here  by  nine  this 
morning." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Betty.  Practicing  on  an  empty 
stomach  did  not  seem  particularly  alluring. 

The  breakfast  bell  rang.  Mrs.  Garside  put  a  finish- 
ing touch  to  her  own  toilet,  and  went  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

Betty  stood  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then, 
stooping,  she  pulled  the  volume  of  Swinburne  from  under 
her  pillow,  and  seated  herself  near  the  window.  It 
seemed  profanation,  in  view  of  the  commerce-drenched 
talk  with  her  mother,  to  open  these  intoxicating  pages. 
Betty  swallowed  hard.  She  was  very  near  crying,  as 
she  perceived  with  chagrin,  for  her  tearlessness  was  one 
of  the  qualities  upon  the  possession  of  which  this  young 
aristocrat  prided  herself. 

To  calm  herself  she  went  to  the  window,  and  removing 
the  screen,  seated  herself  on  the  window-sill.  Her  room 
was  on  the  first  sleeping  floor  and  looked  out  upon  the 
roof  of  the  large  porch,  where  the  boarders  congregated 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  except  at  mealtime.  Her  win- 
dow was  the  last  in  the  row,  except  one.  Beyond  that, 
the  roof  fell  away  abruptly,  disclosing  an  elbow  of  the 
piazza  which  ran  out  at  right  angles  from  the  main 
veranda  to  meet  the  driveway  and  walk. 

Betty,  owing  to  her  abbreviated  sleep  of  the  night  be- 
fore, felt  a  sudden  spasm  of  abnormal  hunger.  On  the 
spur  of  the  moment  she  decided  to  call  to  the  bell  boy 
to  get  her  a  box  of  chocolates,  and  fetch  it  to  her  room. 
She  dared  not  go  down  for  it  herself,  fearing  to  en- 
counter the  redoubtable  Mr.  Pidgin. 

She  began  calling  "Richard,  Richard !"  He  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  reading  room,  abutting  upon  the 
elbow  of  the  piazza,  evidently  speaking  to  someone.  He 
turned,  and  was  about  to  walk  away. 

"Richard,  Richard,"  she  called  again. 

38 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  39 

The  young  man  stopped,  looked  up  at  Betty  and 
smiled  bewitchingly.  Betty  started  back  in  surprise 
rather  than  alarm.  The  young  man  whom  she  had  hailed 
so  familiarly  as  "Richard"  was  not  the  bell-boy  at  all. 
He  was  taller,  and  older,  and — Betty's  breath  came  in 
spurts, — very  much  handsomer. 

Betty  did  not  hazard  to  explain  her  mistake  to  her- 
self. The  break,  she  felt,  was  inexcusable. 

When  she  regained  her  self  possession,  which,  for  a 
moment,  had  basely  deserted  her,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  lived  ages.  Thoughts  pelted  her  like  hailstones, 
coming  from  without  in  wild  turmoil,  not  evolved  from 
within.  Before  he  spoke,  she  knew  that  the  young  man's 
voice  would  be  as  music  to  her  ear,  that  to  have  him  read 
to  her  one  of  the  sweet,  delightful  poems  of  the  night 
before  would  be  the  height  of  felicity.  All  this  she 
thought,  and  more — so  madly  did  the  cauldron  boil 
wherein  are  fused  thought  -and  emotion  before  the 
stranger,  whom  she  had  hailed  familiarly  as  Richard, 
spoke. 

"Richard  is  my  name,"  he  said.  "And  though  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I  trust  you  will 
allow  me  to  render  you  the  service  for  which  you  de- 
sired to  requisition  the  other  Richard." 

There  kindled  in  his  eyes  the  light  of  admiration  which 
Betty  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  many  men  before;  but, 
for  the  first  time,  it  was  not  disagreeable  to  her.  And 
again  eons  sped  pastv  while  a  moment  of  sweet  de- 
lirium lasted.  Thus  was  Oberon's  prophecy  fulfilled : 

The  -first  thing  which  she  waking  looks  upon, 
On  busy  monkey,  or  on  meddling  ape. 

But  this  young  man  had  nothing  about  him  of  the  monkey 
or  the  ape.     He   was  stalwart,   straight  of  limb,   and 


40  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

clean-cut;  the  deep  red  dyed  his  cheeks  the  color  of  the 
blush  rose,  his  eyes  were  blue  and  honest,  his  brown  hair 
promised  softness  of  touch  to  caressing  fingers,  and,  as 
if  nature  had  repented  of  making  too  pretty  a  pre- 
sentment of  a  man,  his  nose  stood  out  from  his  face  a 
bit  awry.  Betty  saw  and  did  not  disapprove.  So  great 
was  the  divine  madness  that  had  fallen  upon  her  that 
architecturally  proper  noses,  noses  whose  angles  were 
true  and  plumb,  noses  raising  themselves  in  orthodox 
fashion  from  the  face  would  henceforth  be  abhorred  by 
Betty. 

Then,  she  was  delighted  to  see  that  with  fine  courtesy 
he  anticipated  her  in  acknowledging  that  she  had  mis- 
taken him  for  someone  else,  instead  of  forcing  upon 
her  the  embarrassment  of  an  explanation. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Betty  said.  "I  couldn't  think 
of  troubling  you.  Unless,  indeed,  you  wouldn't  mind 
calling  the  Richard  whom  I  wanted.  He  is  sweeping  the 
piazza,  probably." 

"Not  here." 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  piazza?" 

"I  would  hear  his  footsteps." 

"Then  I  will  wait." 

"If  it  is  an  urgent  matter ?" 

"Not  at  all."  Betty  would  rather  have  died  a  hun- 
dred deaths  than  acknowledge  possessing  anything  so 
vulgar  and  carnal  as  an  appetite.  At  that  moment,  the 
book,  with  which  she  had  been  playing  nervously,  slipped 
from  her  fingers,  and  began  flip  flapping  down  the  slant- 
ing roof  of  the  piazza.  A  letter  which  she  had  placed  in 
it  as  a  book-mark  fell  from  the  scattering  pages  and 
hopped,  flew  and  skipped  down  to  the  runnel  whither  it 
was  followed  by  the  somersaulting  book. 

"Oh,"  said  Betty. 

Richard  the  stranger  laughed. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  41 

"I'll  get  it  for  you  in  a  minute."  He  disappeared. 
Betty  heard  the  clicking  of  something  hard  upon  wood, 
and  the  next  moment  his  head  reappeared,  this  time 
below  the  roof.  He  swung  himself  easily  from  the  post 
up  which  he  had  climbed  upon  the  roof  itself. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  said,  "and  over  there  is  the  book." 

The  book,  the  wind  lapping  through  its  pages,  lay  some 
two  yards  away  from  him.  He  crawled  cautiously  along 
the  edge  of  the  roof,  secured  both  book  and  letter,  and 
regained  his  first  position  on  the  roof.  Betty  besought 
him  nervously  not  to  attempt  to  crawl  upward  along 
the  ledge  of  the  roof. 

"I  shall  have  to  take  it  down  to  the  office,  and  have 
them  send  it  up  to  you,  unless  you  happen  to  have  a 
long  string. 

"You  tie  a  pebble  or  something  heavy  to  one  end  to 
weight  it  down  and  then  you  throw  the  weight  to  me. 
That  will  enable  me  to  tie  the  string  around  the  book, 
so  you  can  haul  it  in.  That's  the  way  they  save  peo- 
ple's lives  in  fire  and  shipwreck." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Betty.  She  was  delighted 
with  the  idea.  She  went  to  search  for  some  cord,  and 
found  a  stout  string. 

"I  have  no  pebble,"  she  said. 

"Anything  else  will  do." 

"A  box  of  matches?" 

"Not  heavy  enough." 

"A  paper-weight?" 

"Too  heavy." 

"What  then?" 

"Oh,  a  jack-knife,  or  a  pair  of  scissors." 

Betty  was  delighted  with  the  stranger's  fertility  of 
thought.  She  procured  her  little  silver  embroidery  scis- 
sors, tied  it  to  a  string  and  sped  back  to  the  window  to 
hurl  the  weighted  string  to  the  stranger.  She  found  him 


42  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

sitting  crosslegged  on  the  roof,  the  open  volume  of  Swin- 
burne on  his  knees,  reading.  And  while  he  read  he  ran 
his  fingers  through  his  hair  uninterruptedly.  They  were 
beautiful  fingers,  long,  slim  and  tapering,  like  a  woman's, 
and  his  hand  was  without  a  blemish.  Betty  gazed  with 
rapture  at  the  young  man.  He  had  come  up  to  her  from 
the  garden-walk,  but  he  might  as  well  have  dropped 
from  the  clouds.  Men's  hands  were  usually  things  to 
shudder  at — coarse,  uncared  for,  ungainly  things,  but 
the  young  stranger's  hands  were  quite  perfect. 

"Don't  you  love  Swinburne?"  he  asked,  as  without 
warning  from  Betty,  the  embroidery  scissors  flipped 
down  upon  the  open  page  before  him. 

"I  adore  him,"  Betty  replied  in  the  tone  in  which 
we  speak  of  a  long  cherished  possession.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  travelled  miles  since  yesternight. 

Instead  of  tying  the  string  about  the  book,  as  he  had 
agreed  to  do,  the  young  man  became  contemplative.  He 
rushed  into  an  impassioned  eulogy  on  Swinburne,  and 
he  was  full  of  his  subject.  He  explained  to  Betty  that 
Swinburne  had  been  a  Grecian,  rather  than  a  Greek, 
that  the  Greek  outlook  upon  life  and  love  and  beauty  had 
seemed  so  beautiful  to  him  that  to  see  things  thus  had 
become  second  nature  to  him.  His  joy  in  the  sky,  the 
clouds,  the  night,  the  rain,  the  earth  had  been  augmented 
a  hundredfold  by  the  purely  intellectual  pleasure  of 
viewing  them  through  Greek  glasses.  Like  the  Greeks, 
too,  he  worshipped  art  rather  than  life.  Like  the 
Greeks,  the  manifold  manifestations  of  life  interested 
him  not  primarily  because  they  were  segments  of  life, 
but  because  they  were  subjects  for  art  to  exploit.  There- 
fore, like  the  Greeks,  he  adhered  to  an  exaggerated  love 
of  form,  of  statuesque  beauty,  of  polished  serenity  in 
dealing  with  even  the  most  frantic  passions,  the  wildest 
emotions,  the  most  violent  heart-burnings.  This  repres- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  43 

sion  in  a  modern  of  the  modern  instinct  for  sacrificing 
form  to  emotion,  gave  to  his  poetry  an  exotic  charm. 
Mad  thoughts,  expressed  in  harmonious  language,  lost 
the  sense  of  panting,  raving  madness.  Rhythm,  exploited 
by  him  with  an  adroitness  which  no  poet,  ancient  or 
modern,  had  rivalled,  assumed  the  hue  of  magic,  and 
the  witchery  of  carefully  compounded  alliteration  super- 
imposed upon  the  enchantment  woven  by  the  rhythm 
drugged  the  intellect  and  sharpened  the  perception  of  the 
senses. 

Having  exhausted  the  subject,  he  opened  the  book. 

"May  I  read  to  you  one  of  my  favorite  poems?"  he 
asked. 

"Certainly." 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  the  words  which  the  boy, 
he  was  little  more,  was  reading  to  her.  She  was  too 
full  of  the  wonders  which  her  destiny  was  scattering 
about  her  ears.  As  the  scythe  mows  away  knee-deep 
grass  impeding  the  landscape,  so  there  was  razed  away 
before  her  spiritual  eyes  all  the  trivialities  of  life  ^yhich 
had  obscured  her  outlook.  This,  at  last,  was  life, — not 
the  miserable,  fetid  pettiness  which  had  heretofore 
passed  as  such. 

The  boy  had  closed  the  book.  He  was  busy  tying 
the  string  about  the  book. 

"Besides,"  he  said,  "Swinburne  was  an  expert  on  the 
vital  matter  of  life." 

"The  vital  matter  of  life?" 

"Love,"  he  said  simply,  "the  right  woman." 

"Or  the  right  man?"  she  queried. 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing,  doesn't  it?" 

"Then  you  believe "  Betty  began,  and  stopped  in 

confusion. 

"In  what?"  he  asked. 

"That  love  is  an  actual  thing — that  it  really  exists 


44  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

.  .  .  .  "     It  seemed  incredible  that  she,  Betty  Garside, 
was  having  this  marvellous  adventure. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  without  levity,  "I  think  it  is  the  only 
actual  thing  in  the  world." 

"I  did  not  know,"  she  hazarded,  her  words  almost 
unintelligible,  so  fearful  was  she  of  the  thought  to 
which  she  was  about  to  give  expression.  "I  did  not 
know  it  was  thus  with  a  man." 

The  young  man  became  greatly  excited.  Evidently 
he  had  many  convictions  and  opinions  and  ideals,  and 
she  had  rubbed  roughly  over  one  of  them. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  cried.  "The  world  would  be  so 
much  happier  if  men  and  women  would  only  realize  that 
there  is  only  one  thing  which  is  worth  while — love,  the 
real,  genuine,  to-the-death  love,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  it  doesn't  really  mean  so  much  to  most 
men." 

"It  must.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  A  fellow  meets  a 
lot  of  bright,  pretty,  fascinating  girls.  He  likes  them 
immensely,  but  he  knows  right  along  that  not  one  of 
them  is  the  woman.  It  isn't  a  matter  of  complexion,  or 
wit,  or  beauty.  It's  something  deeper.  And  then,  one 
day,  when  he  least  expects  it,  he  meets  the  right  girl, 
and  if  she  is  the  girl,  the  one  woman,  you  know,  he 
realizes  it  in  a  twinkling.  And  no  mistake." 

"I  didn't  know,"  murmured  Betty. 

"You  knew  it  as  being  true  of  a  girl,  of  yourself, 
didn't  you?"  the  question  was  an  entreaty. 

"I  hardly  know,"  faltered  Betty,  feeling  that  she  was 
being  taken  by  storm. 

"You  didn't  believe  in  love  at  first  sight?" 

"I  never  thought  about  it  before." 

"Think  about  it  now,"  he  begged.     "Well?" 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  Betty's  eyelashes 
dropped,  and  the  young  man  sighed  as  if  he  were 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  45 

sighing  away  his  soul  with  sheer  joy  in  their  length  and 
sweep. 

"And  doesn't  it  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world  ?" 
he  asked. 

"For  a  girl  more  than  for  a  man,  I  imagine." 

She  spoke  with  a  passion  of  emphasis,  and,  as  al- 
ways when  deeply  stirred,  she  crossed  her  arms  over 
her  bosom,  and  dropped  her  chin  upon  her  crossed 
hands. 

He  divined  that  there  had  been  a  recent  tragedy  of 
some  sort  in  the  life  of  this  adorable  creature,  and 
realized  that,  no  matter  how  candid  she  would  be  with 
him  in  generalizing  upon  the  moods  and  fancies  of  the 
heart,  reticence,  modesty  and  breeding  would  not  per- 
mit her  to  particularize  specific  facts. 

"A  good  many  fellows  never  meet  the  right  girl,"  he 
continued.  "I  can  tell  you  if  a  chap  does  meet  her,  it 
is  going  to  give  him  an  impetus  to  make  good  com- 
pared with  which  ambition  is  nothing." 

"To  make  good  at  what?" 

"Oh,  whatever  he  is  tinkering  away  at.  To  make  good 
so  that  he  has  a  right  to  approach  her — has  a  right  to 
win  her." 

Betty's  eyes  shone,  her  face  was  radiant.  A  simi- 
lar mutation  had  occurred  in  the  young  man's  appear- 
ance. By  leaps  and  bounds,  lightning-wise,  they  had 
reached  the  point  where  generalities  are  accepted  and 
understood  to  be  personalities.  With  charming  naivete, 
a  naivete  of  which  only  unspoiled  and  virginal  natures 
are  capable,  they  were  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  the 
intense  interest  with  which  they  inspired  each  other. 

"You  see,"  the  boy  continued,  "a  chap  wants  to  be 
everything  to  that  girl — everything.  .  .  ."  he  stopped 
modestly,  and  then  continued  as  if  to  modify  any  bru- 
tality which  she  might  imagine  he  had  intended  to  con- 


46  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

vey  but  of  which  he  was  guiltless,  ".  .  .  he  wants  to 
feel  that  the  mere  fact  of  his  existence  makes  her  exist- 
ence worth  while  and  lifts  it  from  merest  commonplace 
to  the  noble  heights  of  real  life." 

"Then  it's  not  selfish,  or  vain,  to  want  someone  to 
care  for  you  like  that?" 

"Selfish?  Vain?  Who  told  you  that?"  He  de- 
manded almost  viciously.  "Why,  it's  that  feeling  of 
being  indispensable  to  someone,  of  feeling  you  are 
needed  by  someone,  that  underlies  every  manly  and 
womanly  quality." 

He  became  greatly  agitated,  and  Betty  implored  him 
to  be  careful  not  to  fall  off  the  roof.  Then,  suddenly, 
the  humor  of  their  conversation  between  window-sill 
and  roof  occurred  to  them,  and  they  laughed  long  and 
merrily.  Forgetting  the  haven  of  abstractions  in  which 
they  had  been  navigating  so  assiduously,  they  glori- 
fied in  the  mere  fact  of  being  alive,  of  being  to- 
gether, of  having  discovered  each  other.  There  fell  a 
pause,  a  pause  during  which  they  looked  at  each  other 
frankly,  and  their  looks  seemed  to  bring  them  nearer 
together  than  words,  or  handclasp,  or  touch  of  lips. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  forgot  to  put  your  letter  in  the  book,"  he  said,  and 
tried  to  shove  it  into  the  book  between  cover  and  fly- 
page.  In  doing  so,  he  glimpsed  the  name  and  address. 

"Miss  Garside?"  he  asked.  "Then  you  are  the  young 
lady  I  brought  the  music  for  from  Telfer's.  I'm  run- 
ning Telfer's  summer  branch  up  here,  as  an  experiment, 
you  know." 

"And  you  had  to  come  up  the  mountain  on  account 
of  my  music?" 

"It  was  a  treat."  The  compliment,  now  that  he  had 
paid  it,  frightened  him,  and  he  covered  his  indiscretion 
neatly  by  saying: 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  47 

"You  see,  the  druggist  allows  me  to  ride  his  horse  any 
time  in  the  morning  before  ten,  and  when  there's  a 
place  to  ride  to,  it  makes  it  so  much  pleasanter." 

"It's  nice  to  be  able  to  ride,"  said  Betty.  It  was  an 
accomplishment  she  lacked,  and  one  which  she  had  al- 
ways wished  to  possess. 

"You  have  a  finer  accomplishment." 

"What?" 

"You  must  be  a  pretty  fair  pianist  to  be  able  to  play 
the  music  I  brought  you." 

"I'm  too  indolent,  I'm  afraid,  to  ever  learn  how  to 
play  well.  Do  you  play?" 

"Rather." 

"That  means  that  you  play  well." 

"If  I  were  to  admit  that  it  would  be  inviting  your 
censure  if  I  were  ever  fortunate  enough  to  play  for 
you." 

"Oh,  I  do  want  to  hear  you  after  that." 

"I  shall  work  hard  in  anticipation  of  that  day." 

"You  have  worked  hard  in  the  past,  haven't  you?" 
He  did  not  reply,  and  she  added  entreatingly  after  a 
short  pause,  as  if  to  cajole  him  into  a  confidence  by 
using  child's  slang: 

"Honest  Injun?" 

"Honest  Injun,  I  have." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  begged,  settling  herself 
comfortably  on  the  window-sill.  It  was  his  turn  to 
caution  her  against  headlong  precipitation  from  the 
roof.  Again  their  laughter  rang  out  clear  and  distinct. 
When  it  had  abated,  he  began: 

"To  go  abroad  and  study  is  my  most  cherished  desire. 
At  least,  it  was  my  greatest  wish  until  this  morning." 
This  time  he  did  not  attempt  to  obliterate  the  impres- 
sion of  having  paid  her  a  compliment,  but  looked  at 
her  with  frank  admiration  beaming  from  his  blue  eyes. 


48  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  go  some  day." 

"Perhaps."  And  unaffectedly,  with  charming  can- 
dor, he  told  her  that  he  had  been  "saving  his  pennies" 
and  had  over  a  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank  now.  He 
called  this  his  "Europe  fund."  When  he  reached  the 
fifteen  hundred  mark  he  was  going  abroad  for  three 
years.  He  spoke  modestly,  without  self-vaunting,  but 
a  new  element  had  suddenly  crept  into  his  manner.  He 
wound  up  with: 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  nobody  all  my  life.  I  want  to 
be  someone,  somebody." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  bent  forward  and  listened. 

"Sss,"  he  said.  "They  are  beginning  to  get  up  from 
the  table.  I  had  better  go.  It  might  be  awkward  for 
you,  you  know — this  situation " 

She  thanked  him  with  her  eyes.  He  flung  the  book 
upward,  she  hauled  it  in  dexterously,  then  he  swung 
down  from  the  roof.  For  a  moment  he  hung  in  mid- 
air. Then,  with  the  footing  which  a  friendly  pillar 
afforded  to  steady  himself  upon,  he  remarked : 

"The  drug-store  at  which  Telfer's  hangs  out  has  ex- 
cellent soda-water." 

Betty  laughed. 

His  shoulders  were  no  longer  visible,  but  the  hand- 
some head,  with  its  bright  patches  of  red  cheek  and 
dark  shock  of  hair,  still  appeared  above  the  roof.  Sud- 
denly his  hand  shot  upward  and  waved  a  good-bye.  He 
declaimed  sententiously : 

"Parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow,  that  I  could  part  all 
day  till  it  be  morrow."  And  then,  as  Betty  caught  her 
breath  sharply,  he  flung  her  a  kiss  with  his  hand.  She 
had  a  vague  sensation  that,  for  dignity's  sake,  she  ought 
to  frown.  But  there  was  no  resisting  the  merry,  honest 
blue  eyes  and  their  mischievous  glances.  Once  more 
he  re-emerged,  and  said  gravely: 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  49 

"Romeo  always  does  that  in  the  play,  you  know." 

Then  he  extinguished  himself.  Betty,  in  her  heart, 
blessed  him  for  that  ultimate  phrase  which  had  robbed 
his  conduct  of  every  vestige  of  impudence. 

She  had  occasion  to  rejoice  once  more  in  his  discre- 
tion. The  voices  which  he  had  heard  in  the  hall  were 
now  on  the  veranda,  and  as  he  mounted  his  horse  and 
rode  past  Betty's  window,  he  did  not  so  much  as  glance 
in  her  direction. 

Could  a  prince  have  shown  a  finer  courtesy? 

Betty  abased  herself  before  him  in  spirit.  She  wove 
airy  fantasies  about  him.  What  did  he  do  at  Telfer's? 
Who  was  he?  Did  he  have  much  talent?  Genius,  per- 
haps? She  remembered  with  a  start  that  she  did  not 
even  know  his  surname.  Her  imagination  was  on  fire. 
It  did  not  burn  as  one  substantial  holocaust,  but  shot 
out  myriad  little  tongues  of  flame  simultaneously — all 
eager,  all  ardent,  all  dying  away  so  quickly  as  to  be 
almost  indistinguishable.  She  could  not  capture  the  fu- 
gitive and  transient  thoughts  that  came  to  her  regarding 
this  young  man;  as  well  hope  to  carry  home  a  slice  of 
the  ocean  in  a  shad  net  because  it  circumvallated  water 
while  stretched  in  the  sea  from  its  stakes. 

With  a  start  she  realized  that  her  mother  was  in 
the  room.  Betty  had  completely  forgotten  the  for- 
midable Pidgin.  Now  she  remembered  him  overwhelm- 
ingly. 

"The  music  has  come  from  Telfer's,"  her  mother  an- 
nounced, handing  Betty  a  package,  and  Betty,  who  had 
never  equivocated  before,  said  in  a  tone  of  agreeable 
surprise : 

"Oh,  has  it?" 

She  laid  the  volume  of  Swinburne  down  under  the 
slender  package  containing  the  sheet  music,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  slip  it  under  her  arm  unperceived  by  her  mother. 


50  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

So  quickly  did  equivocating  act  follow  equivocating 
word. 

Betty  went  to  the  door. 

"By  the  way,"  said  her  mother,  making  a  footnote  of 
the  matter  of  prime  importance,  "have  you  thought  the 
matter  over?" 

"What  matter?"  Betty  inquired  nonchalantly,  though 
her  heart  beat  high  at  expectation  of  a  fray. 

Mrs.  Garside  frowned. 

"Mr.  Pidgin,  and  the  marriage." 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  it  over.  I've  got  to  be  true  to 
myself,  mother.  I'd  lose  my  self-respect  if  I  married 
him." 

"Self-respect!  True  to  yourself!  Don't  be  theatri- 
cal, Betty." 

"Well,  then,  untheatrically,  I  won't,  I  can't,  I  shan't." 

"If  you  had  not  given  me  your  word  that  there  was 
no  other  man,  I  would  think  such  wilfulness  would  be 
due  to  nothing  but  a  previous  attachment." 

"Well,"  said  Betty,  "I  did  give  you  my  word,  didn't 
I?  I  have  never  lied  to  you,  you  know."  She  won- 
dered vaguely  whether  she  was  lying  now.  "I  am  going 
to  the  barn  to  practice,"  she  said,  and  rapidly  made  her 
exit. 

She  had  no  intention  of  practicing.  She  meant  to 
think  over  the  occurrences  of  the  morning.  She  wanted 
to  think  and  think  hard  about  Richard  of  the  Unknown 
Surname.  But  she  had  hardly  settled  herself  comfort- 
ably in  the  barn  loft,  which,  though  it  smelt  vilely  of 
cows  and  horses,  seemed  a  sumptuous  abode  to  Betty 
that  morning,  because  it  permitted  continuity  of  thought, 
when  one  of  the  maids  came  to  summon  her  to  return 
to  the  house,  as  her  mother  wished  to  see  her  at  once. 

With  a  sigh,  Betty  left  her  comfortable  chair,  and 
leisurely  returned  to  the  house.  She  supposed  her  mother 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  51 

wanted  to  reopen  the  Pidgin  matter.  She  hardly  cared. 
She  was  busy  thinking  of  the  Stranger.  She  remem- 
bered his  every  movement,  gesture  and  mannerism  so 
vividly  that  she  seemed  almost  to  see  him.  She  loved 
his  handsome  hands,  with  their  slender,  long,  nervous, 
tapering  fingers,  dainty  and  well-kept  as  a  woman's,  yet 
masculinely  strong.  They  were  ideal  pianist's  hands, 
as  she  was  enough  of  a  musician  to  know.  She  won- 
dered how  he  played,  and  told  herself  immediately  after- 
wards that  he  could  not  possibly  play  other  than  well. 
She  wondered  whether  his  last  name  was  euphonious ; 
whether  he  thought  as  much  of  her  as  she  was  thinking 
of  him. 

Betty  found  her  mother  sitting  in  her  own  room  with 
a  large,  official-looking  envelope  in  one  hand,  a  type- 
written letter  in  the  other.  She  was  the  picture  of 
dismay. 

"Betty!" 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"The  copper  mining  company,  our  mining  company, 
is  insolvent." 

Betty  said  nothing.  She  looked  at  her  mother  uncom- 
prehendingly. 

"That  means,  child,  that  we  are  ruined." 

"Won't  you  get  anything?" 

"Nothing.  It  means  that  all  we  have  in  the  world  is 
the  pittance  I  have  in  the  bank  and  the  few  bills  I  have 
in  my  purse — some  three  hundred  dollars  in  all." 

Still  Betty  stared  at  her  mother  mutely.  She  realized 
what  her  mother  was  about  to  say  to  her  and  she 
wanted  to  ward  it  off,  she  wanted  to  speak,  but  her 
tongue  seemed  wrapped  about  heavily,  as  in  a  wet 
blanket. 

"Betty,  I  renew  my  entreaties  concerning  Mr.  Pid- 
gin. This  failure  means  going  to  work,  and  that  as 


52  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

quickly  as  work  is  to  be  had,  unless  you  will  accept  Mr. 
Pidgin." 

"I  told  you  before  that  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
Jvork,  and  I  was  quite  sincere  in  saying  that,"  said  Betty. 

"I  know,  my  dear,  but  you  will  not  be  able  to  earn 
enough  to  support  us  both.  I  will  have  to  go  to  work, 
too." 

"No,  no,  mother,  that's  not  to  be  thought  of." 

"I  will  have  to  think  of  it,  nevertheless,  Betty,  un- 
less- 

Betty  became  very  white.  She  thought  the  pressure 
her  mother  was  exerting  unfair  and  selfish.  She  was 
too  young  to  realize  that  her  mother  was  not  putting 
forth  this  appeal  because  she  feared  hardship  for  her- 
self, but  because  she  knew  that  her  daughter  would  fear 
hardship  for  the  mother  rather  than  for  herself.  It  was 
in  reality  a  very  high  tribute  Mrs.  Garside  was  paying 
Betty  in  attacking  her  as  she  was  doing. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  Betty  asked  in  a  heartbroken 
voice. 

"Betty,  my  daughter,  listen  to  me.  You  expressed  the 
belief  before  that  filial  devotion  is  as  strong  as  maternal 
love.  Let  me  tell  you  of  an  occurrence  of  which  you 
know  nothing,  and  after  I  have  told  you  the  story,  you 
can  prove  to  me,  if  you  wish,  that  your  contention  is 
right."  She  paused  a  moment,  then  asked  swiftly: 

"Do  you  recall  Mr.  Ogden,  whom  we  met  last  winter 
at  Lakewood?" 

"Do  I?"  Eyes  of  mother  and  daughter  met,  and 
there  arose  before  their  mind's  eye  the  face  of  a  man 
pinched  and  withered,  marked  as  much  by  vice  as  by 
disease,  a  creature  utterly  repulsive  and  loathsome. 

"Betty,  he  was  extremely  wealthy, — much  wealthier 
fchan  Mr.  Pidgin." 

"Very  wealthy,  mother,  and  very  vile.  Did  he  want 
to  marry  me,  too?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  53 

"He  did,  Betty.  I  had  tried  to  deflect  his  attentions 
to  myself.  I  would  have  married  him  willingly  for  your 
sake,  if  he  had  been  a  thousand  times  more  horrible 
than  he  was." 

"Oh,  mother,  dear,  how  could  you?" 

"My  maternal  love,  child,  would  have  made  it  pos- 
sible. I  would  have  stifled  my  loathing,  but  I  failed, 
failed  lamentably.  You  perceive,  Betty,  how  perishable 
is  that  asset  which  I  am  begging  you  to  make  use  of  in 
your  own  case." 

"Oh,  mother,  don't,  don't  talk  like  that." 

"You  are  too  young,  Betty,  to  realize  what  marriage 
to  a  man  like  Ogden  means  for  a  woman.  I  would 
have  seen  you  dead  before  I  would  have  consented  to 
let  you  marry  him.  Yet  I  would  have  endured  the 
ignominy  of  such  a  union,  would  have  risked  the  prob- 
able wrecking  of  my  health  for  the  sake  of  procuring 
for  you  the  advantages  which  wealth  bestows  and  the 
possibility  of  allowing  you  your  own  choice  of  a  hus- 
band." 

Betty  looked  up  quickly ;  she  did  not  understand  what 
her  mother  had  reference  to  in  speaking  of  the  pos- 
sible wrecking  of  her  health ;  she  was  to  wonder  a  good 
deal  about  it  in  the  future.  Her  mother's  manner  even 
more  than  her  words  had  softened  Betty,  and  she  asked 
gently : 

"Before  you  said  love  didn't  matter?  Now  it  seems 
you  think  it  does,  after  all." 

Mrs.  Garside  said  wearily : 

"It  doesn't  matter — in  the  end.  But  I  suppose  the 
illusion  is  pleasant  while  it  lasts.  For  the  sake  of  let- 
ting my  little  girl  have  her  illusory  start,  I  was  willing, 
nay  eager,  to  sell  myself.  But  I  failed.  I  failed." 

Mrs.  Garside's  voice  had  become  very  pathetic. 
Betty's  nerves  were  snapping.  She  felt  that  she  must 
go  insane  if  her  mother  said  "I  failed"  just  once  more 


54  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

in  the  same  pathos-laden  tone.  Suddenly  she  realized 
that  her  mother  was  waiting  for  her  to  say  something, 
was  waiting  for  her  decision.  A  strange  feeling  of  fear 
crept  through  her  as  she  realized  that  upon  her  answer 
depended  her  mother's  future.  If  she  refused  her 
mother  might  have  to  stand  behind  a  counter,  matching 
ribbons  or  fitting  gloves,  and  there  arose  before  her 
inward  vision  the  faces  of  innumerable  saleswomen 
whom  she  had  seen  in  the  large  shops  or  on  the  street, 
hurrying  to  work  in  the  cold  dawn  of  a  winter's  morn- 
ing. She  shuddered.  She  could  not  endure  the  thought 
that  her  mother  should  be  dragged  to  such  a  pitiable 
level. 

With  the  impetuousness  of  youth  she  felt  that  this 
last  alternative  was  the  most  intolerable  of  all.  She 
said  abruptly: 

"I  will  marry  Mr.  Pidgin." 

Mrs.  Garside  closed  her  eyes,  and  sighed  deeply. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  she  said.     "Thank  Heaven." 

Betty  misunderstood  the  exclamation.  She  took  it 
as  an  evidence  of  the  grossest,  most  callous  selfishness. 
She  was  making  the  biggest  sacrifice  of  which  a  woman 
is  capable  for  her  mother,  and  all  her  mother  said  was 
"Thank  Heaven."  Betty  reflected  that  it  was  herself, 
Betty,  not  Heaven,  whom  her  mother  should  have 
thanked  by  rights. 

Filled  with  bitterness,  but  not  wishing  to  betray  her 
anger,  she  sprang  from  her  chair  and  flounced  out  of 
the  room.  Her  mother  called  after  her,  but  Betty  pre- 
tended not  to  hear. 

She  went  down  to  the  piazza.,  and  sat  down  in  a 
corner  where  the  conversation  was  in  full  swing,  and 
her  coming,  in  consequence,  would  cause  no  comment. 
Presently  her  mother  appeared.  Anxious-eyed,  her 
glance  trailed  up  and  down  the  long  piazza  until  it  lo- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  55' 

cated  Betty.  Then  her  face  brightened.  She  came  and 
stood  near  Betty,  who  felt  constrained  to  offer  her 
mother  a  chair.  But  instead  of  sitting  down,  her  mother 
drew  Betty's  arm  through  her  own,  forcing  her  to  walk 
with  her,  away  from  the  chattering  group  of  women. 

"Betty,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Pidgin  has  just  asked  me  to 
drive  around  the  mountain  with  him."  Driving  around 
the  mountain  was  the  favorite  pursuit  on  a  hot  day  at 
Penascapet,  probably  because  it  was  the  only  drive  on 
level  ground  in  that  locality.  "The  dog-cart  will  be 
here  in  ten  minutes.  You'll  stand  pat?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I'll  stand  pat." 

"He  will  probably  want  to  get  married  early  in  the 
fall.  Are  you  willing — so  soon  ?" 

"Some  girls  when  they  have  a  toothache,"  Betty  said, 
"keep  putting  off  their  visit  to  the  dentist  as  long  as 
possible.  I  always  go  right  off.  I  like  to  get  through 
with  disagreeable  things.  You  can  hand  me  over  to  my 
new  owner  next  week,  if  you  wish." 

Until  now  Betty  had  always  answered  plain  "Yea" 
and  "Nay,"  but  the  suffering  she  had  undergone  in  the 
last  hour  had  whipped  her  imagination  into  seeking  an 
outlet  for  her  anguish  in  metaphor  and  irony.  Her 
mother  looked  at  her  in  alarm.  The  pale,  high-bred 
face  was  a  shade  paler  than  usual.  It  seemed  aged. 
The  girl  had  receded  into  the  background,  the  woman 
was  in  the  ascendant.  The  tense,  psychic  experience  she 
had  lived  through  had  heightened  the  quality  of  repose, 
which  she  always  possessed,  to  an  unnatural  degree.  She 
had  more  aplomb  than  her  mother,  as  her  mother  saw 
with  something  akin  to  dismay. 

"Betty,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  warmth  very  un- 
usual in  her,  "kiss  me,  child." 

"I  cannot  kiss  you  now,  mother." 

"It  is  for  your  best.     Do  not  be  angry  with  me." 


56  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Angry?"  The  girl's  resentment  overflowed.  "An- 
gry ?  Heaven  forgive  me — I  hate  you  for  this,  mother." 

Mrs.  Garside  caught  her  breath  with  a  sharp  intake. 
She  was  about  to  retort  when  a  voice,  a  voice  that  held 
all  heaven  in  its  cadences  for  Betty,  interrupted  them. 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Garside, — the  druggist  where  Tel- 
fer  has  his  stand  had  some  medicine  to  deliver  here, 
and  I  brought  it  for  him.  As  there  was  some  new 
music  in  this  morning's  mail,  I  brought  it  with  me, 
thinking  you  would  like  to  see  it.  Keep  it  till  to-morrow 
and  if  you  don't  want  it,  send  it  back  by  the  mail- 
wagon." 

Mrs.  Garside  smiled. 

"Betty,"  she  said,  "this  is  Mr.  Pryce,  of  Telfer's." 

Betty  smiled  in  acknowledgment  of  the  introduction. 
She  admired  the  shrewdness  with  which  Richard,  no 
longer  the  Unknown,  had  managed  to  place  himself 
upon  a  footing  of  respectable  acquaintanceship  with 
her.  She  admired  his  adroitness  in  subterfuge.  She 
admired  the  astuteness  with  which  he  kept  his  eyes 
averted  from  her  face,  as  if  fearing  to  betray  their 
secret.  She  admired  his  manner  of  easy  self-possession 
in  addressing  her  mother.  Last  of  all,  she  again  ad- 
mired his  hands,  the  hands  of  which  she  had  been  dream- 
ing ever  since  she  had  first  seen  them  that  morning. 

Mrs.  Garside  thanked  him  and  said  they  required  no 
more  music  at  present.  Richard,  no  longer  the  Unknown, 
lifted  his  hat  and  bade  her  and  Betty  a  good-morning. 
Just  as  he  mounted  his  horse,  Mr.  Pidgin  drove  up  in 
the  dog-cart,  and  Betty,  to  escape  speaking  to  him, 
turned  to  go  to  the  house. 

"Good-bye,  Betty,"  said  her  mother. 

"Good-bye,  mother." 

She  ran  to  her  room,  and  from  her  window  watched 
the  dog-cart  scuttle  off  at  a  brisk  pace.  She  tried  to 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  57 

compose  herself,  but  seeing  the  two  men  in  juxtapo- 
sition, as  she  had  seen  them  a  minute  before,  made 
the  ordeal  awaiting  her  seem  doubly  cruel.  Richard's 
voice  rang  in  her  ears,  and  she  thought  how  gently  he 
would  clasp  the  hand  of  the  woman  he  loved.  Her 
head  seemed  on  fire.  She  thought  that  her  agony  must 
be  visible  in  her  face,  but  when  Louise  passed  under 
.her  window,  giggling  because  she  had  found  a  red  liz- 
ard, Louise  waved  her  hand  to  Betty  as  if  nothing  un- 
usual was  to  be  seen  in  her  lineaments. 

A  half-hour  passed,  and  suddenly  Betty's  anxiety 
passed  away.  A  conviction  swept  over  her  that  she 
would  not  have  to  marry  Mr.  Pidgin  after  all.  Some 
miracle  was  bound  to  intervene,  though  she  could  not 
have  said  what  that  miracle  would  be.  Betty  had  the 
optimism  of  the  artistic  temperament,  which  is  hugely 
different  from  the  optimism  of  the  democratic  mind. 
The  democrat  has  faith  in  the  future,  because  he  has 
faith  in  his  own  strength  and  competence  in  molding 
that  future.  But  the  aristocrat  has  faith  in  that  future 
because  subconsciously  he  believes  that  nature  and  for- 
tune must  join  hands  in  being  kind  to  one  as  finely 
fibred  as  himself. 

Betty  was  certain  some  miracle  would  happen  in  her 
behalf.  While  she  was  nursing  this  agreeable  belief, 
there  sounded  on  the  piazza,  voices  raised  to  the  pitch 
of  intense  excitement.  Subsequently  the  dead  silence 
was  followed  by  a  sob  from  Louise.  Betty  knew  it  was 
Louise  sobbing  because  Louise  always  sobbed  at  the 
first  intimation  of  a  thunderstorm  and  kept  on  sobbing 
until  the  storm  had  passed.  Betty  looked  out  at  the 
sky.  There  was  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen. 

She  went  to  the  door,  meaning  to  go  downstairs  to 
see  what  had  happened  to  Louise,  but  as  she  opened 
the  door  she  found  Louise's  mother  standing  there,  at 


58  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

the  threshold,  in  the  attitude  of  someone  about  to  knock. 

"Betty,"  said  Louise's  mother,  "may  I  come  in?" 
Betty  stood  aside,  her  sense  of  wonder  growing,  for 
Louise's  mother  had  never  called  her  Betty  before.  She 
was  a  stately,  handsome  woman  of  dignified  manner, 
but  Betty  saw  that  she  was  trembling  violently  as  from 
suppressed  excitement. 

"Betty — something  terrible  has  happened." 

There  are  moments  when  prescience  speaks  as  plainly 
as  words. 

"What  has  happened  to  my  mother?"  Betty  asked. 
"Is  she  dead?" 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Reynolds  tried  to  tell  Betty  what  had 
happened,  but  her  courage  failed  her.  Again  and  again 
she  essayed  the  task.  It  was  Betty,  quiet,  tearless,  com- 
posed— Betty,  who  had  told  her  mother  half  an  hour 
prior  to  her  death  that  she  hated  her — who  got  the  story 
from  her  piecemeal. 

The  road  "around  the  mountain"  was  being  repaired, 
and  the  workmen  had  forgotten  to  place  a  danger  sig- 
nal on  a  new  piece  of  road  running  over  a  bank  of  shale. 
The  shale  was  not  yet  underpropped,  and  as  the  swiftly 
moving  vehicle  passed  over  it,  the  soft,  mushy  stuff 
crumbled  away  like  sand,  sending  the  dog-cart  down  a 
precipice  two  hundred  feet  deep.  Both  Mr.  Pidgin  and 
her  mother  had  been  instantly  killed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

They  were  all  very  kind  to  Betty,  overwhelmingly, 
unbelievably,  crushingly  kind.  They  were  horribly  wor- 
ried because  Betty  did  not  cry,  or  give  signs  of  violent 
emotion.  They  stood  about  in  the  hall,  on  the  veranda, 
in  the  garden  walks,  asking  each  other,  "Has  she  cried 
yet?" 

Betty  did  not  cry.  The  feeling  that  was  uppermost  in 
Betty  these  days  was  horror.  Her  grief  was  submerged 
by  acute  self-reproach.  She  had  told  her  mother  that 
she  hated  her  a  brief  half-hour  before  her  death.  She 
had  said  nothing  to  mitigate  that  statement.  The 
thought  of  this  drove  her  almost  insane,  and  she  could 
not  escape  from  it.  She  remembered  how  the  feeling 
had  come  to  her  that  a  miracle  was  being  enacted  in  her 
behalf  to  save  her  from  the  hated  marriage,  and  the 
miracle  that  actually  was  saving  her  was  the  tragedy 
involving  her  mother's  death. 

Through  the  interstices  of  this  torrent  of  self- 
reproach  and  pain  she  perceived  a  face,  like  a  face  seen 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street  through  a  November  fog 
under  the  ghostly  glare  of  an  electric  light.  And  the 
face  was  Richard  Pryce's. 

She  had  the  conviction  that  Richard  Pryce  would 
come  to  her,  whether  on  some  pretext  or  scornful  of 
any  pretext,  she  did  not  know.  She  knew  that  those 
slender  fingers  of  his  would  hold  her  hands  in  his  be- 
fore many  days  had  passed  by.  She  knew  that  to  have 
her  hands  clasped  by  his  would  bring  her  unspeakable 
comfort.  She  could  see  the  curious  gleam  in  his  eyes 

59 


60  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

when  the  spirit  quickened  in  them.  And  she  had  a 
singular  sensation  of  being  part  and  parcel  of  him,  of 
being  his,  of  belonging  to  him,  and  this  feeling  swept 
over  her  again  and  again.  She  had  never  even  touched 
his  hands,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  touched 
them  a  thousand  times.  He  had  never  kissed  her  cheek, 
and  she,  so  undemonstrative  and  aloof,  knew  that  it 
was  merely  a  matter  of  time  before  he  would  kiss  her; 
knew,  furthermore,  that  she  would  like  him  to  kiss  her. 

She  told  herself  that  the  breach  she  was  committing 
against  decency  in  harboring  these  thoughts  so  shortly 
after  her  mother's  death  was  monstrous.  The  innumer- 
able sacrifices  her  mother  had  made  for  her  came  back 
to  her.  She  remembered  a  pretty  blue  dress  which  her 
mother  had  sewed  for  her  at  night,  after  she  was 
through  with  the  day's  work  which  brought  money  into 
the  family  till.  She  remembered  what  her  mother  had 
said  about  the  difference  between  maternal  and  filial 
love,  and  then  for  the  first  time  she  wept,  wept  with  a 
passion  and  an  abandon  that  brought  her  to  the  thresh- 
old of  hysterics.  And  at  that  moment,  if  she  could 
have  brought  her  mother  back,  knowing  that  she  must 
contract  a  hateful  marriage,  she  would  willingly  have 
made  the  sacrifice. 

Mrs.  Reynolds  telegraphed  her  husband,  and  at  con- 
siderable inconvenience  to  himself,  he  answered  the 
summons  and  came  up  to  Penascapet.  He  took  charge 
of  the  funeral,  attending  to  all  arrangements  necessary 
for  conveying  the  body  to  the  family  plot  in  New  York, 
where  Mrs.  Garside's  parents  were  buried.  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds went  to  New  York  with  Betty,  and  brought  her 
back  the  same  night  to  Penascapet,  while  Mr.  Reynolds 
attended  to  Betty's  business  matters  for  her,  and  on 
seeing  how  meagre  was  the  bank  account,  paid  part  of 
the  funeral  expenses  himself,  instructing  the  under- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  61 

taker  to  send  Betty  a  bill  for  the  balance  as  if  it  were 
the  entire  bill. 

Last  of  all,  he  offered  Betty  a  home  in  his  family. 
He  was  a  self-made  man,  and  had  a  habit  of  pinching 
his  daughters'  cheeks.  To  Betty,  he  had  always  seemed 
coarse  and  familiar,  and  she  had  wondered  to  see  the 
caresses  his  two  daughters  bestowed  on  him  of  a  Satur- 
day evening  when  he  arrived  from  the  city. 

"You're  much  too  pretty,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "to  go 
out  to  earn  your  own  living.  You  had  better  make  your 
home  with  us  for  the  present.  We  will  be  glad  to  have 
another  grown-up,  attractive  daughter  in  the  house,  par- 
ticularly as  Emma  is  being  married  and  that  leaves  us 
one  daughter  short.  There's  a  brigade  of  young  men 
forever  camping  on  our  doorstep,  and  our  second  and 
third  daughter  will  step  off  like  the  first.  Well,  what 
do  you  say?  Come  to  us,  and  we'll  marry  you  off  to 
some  prosperous  young  chap  immediately." 

Betty  winced,  but  gave  no  outward  sign.  She 
thanked  Mr.  Reynolds  for  his  kindness,  and  asked  to 
be  permitted  to  consider  his  offer.  She  knew  very  well 
that  she  would  never  accept  it;  financial  dependence  on 
strangers  seemed  to  her  a  shameful  thing,  and  besides, 
she  knew  that  Richard  would  come  to  her  one  day  and 
that  her  affairs  would  adjust  themselves  somehow. 

Emma  Reynolds  was  married  three  days  after  Mrs. 
Garside's  interment,  and  the  entire  house,  which  had 
wept  and  bewailed  with  Betty  at  her  mother's  funeral, 
laughed  and  rejoiced  at  Emma's  wedding.  This  left 
Betty  feeling  bewildered  and  helpless.  These  people 
had  cried  as  much  as  herself,  some  more  than  herself, 
when  her  mother  was  taken  away,  and  now  they  en- 
tered with  zest  and  zeal  into  merrymaking. 

Betty  had  gone  to  the  pavilion  merely  to  see  Emma 
married,  and  effaced  herself  immediately  afterwards. 


62  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

She  went  to  her  little  room,  and  thought  of  Richard. 
She  thought  of  him  incessantly  these  days.  She  thought 
of  many  things.  Her  mother's  terse  candor  regarding 
certain  matters  forced  her  thoughts  into  unusual  chan- 
nels and  impelled  her  to  give  thought  to  matters  which 
she  formerly  would  not  have  considered.  She  felt  cer- 
tain that  Richard  Pryce  was  not  like  other  men.  To 
think  that  when  he  married  it  would  be  with  the  usual 
object  of  matrimony  was  to  sully  him.  So  distasteful 
did  the  matter  of  sex  appear  to  her, — and  what  her 
mother  had  said  had  rebuttressed  this  attitude  of 
Betty's, — that  all  experience,  all  history,  all  nature,  and 
her  mother's  cynicism  to  the  contrary,  she  believed  that 
Richard  Pryce,  alone  among  men,  was  sexless.  That 
sexlessness  was  to  her  the  only  state  of  purity  possible. 
When  Richard  Pryce  married,  it  would  be  with  the 
same  objects  in  view  as  herself — companionship,  affec- 
tion, and  mutual  respect. 

And  she  was  certain  that  he  was  coming  to  her. 

Her  faith  in  him,  at  least  as  regards  the  last  particu- 
lar, was  not  misplaced.  Early  one  morning,  before  the 
first  week  of  her  mourning  was  over,  she  saw  him 
coming  up  the  mountain.  He  was  still  half  a  mile  away 
and  on  horseback,  and  a  moment  after  she  had  glimpsed 
him  he  was  lost  from  sight  behind  a  clump  of  elder- 
berry bushes  and  wild  cherry  trees.  She  finished  dress- 
ing in  haste,  and  walked  down  the  road  to  meet  him. 
His  coming  was  a  high  festival  to  her,  and  she  did  not 
wish  her  joy  in  him  dissipated  by  chance  interruptions 
from  inquisitive  and  prying  guests. 

They  came  upon  each  other  some  ten  minutes  walk 
away  from  the  hotel,  near  a  small  rustic  summer  house, 
standing  in  a  secluded  hollow.  He  jumped  from  his 
horse  the  moment  he  saw  her,  and  slipping  the  bridle 
over  his  arm,  he  walked  slowly  uphill.  He  was  dressed 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  63 

in  a  khaki  riding  habit,  which  suited  his  tall,  slim  figure 
particularly  well,  and  his  tan  riding  boots,  strapped  and 
buckled,  gave  him  a  military  and  commanding  appear- 
ance which  made  Betty's  heart  beat  faster.  He  was 
hatless,  but  his  entire  bearing  betokened  an  indescribable 
courtesy  as  he  advanced,  as  if  to  extenuate  the  fact  that 
for  lack  of  a  hat,  he  could  not  give  the  usual  salute  upon 
first  catching  sight  of  her. 

With  a  little  sob,  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  check, 
Betty  held  out  her  hands  to  him.  He  dropped  the  bridle, 
and  possessed  himself  of  the  proffered  hands. 

"Miss  Garside,"  he  said,  "Miss  Betty."  She  saw  that 
his  emotion  was  no  less  than  hers.  No  words  of  com- 
miseration could  have  betokened  greater  sympathy.  The 
strong  clasp  of  his  fingers  seemed  to  promise  protec- 
tion. As  he  held  her  hand,  Betty  remembered  how  she 
had  anticipated  the  touch  of  his  fingers.  A  feeling  of 
intense  peace  and  security  came  to  her. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said  in  a  low,  intimate 
voice. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could,"  he  said.  "I  have  been 
to  New  York  since  I  saw  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you, 
because  I  had  a  feeling  that  you  had  no  relatives,  no 
one,  you  know,  whom  you  can  depend  upon  to  help 
you." 

"A  family  here  at  the  hotel  has  been  extremely  kind," 
said  Betty.  "But  you  are  right;  I  have  no  relatives,  no 
one  in  the  world."  In  thought  she  added  the  words, 
"except  you."  They  trembled  on  her  lips.  Physical 
violence,  almost,  seemed  to  be  necessary  to  keep  them 
from  overflowing.  So  tense  was  the  moment  that  she 
thought  she  must  have  spoken  them  after  all.  Richard 
Pryce  said  quietly: 

"Except  me." 

"Did  I  say  that?"  Betty  asked,  a  little  frightened. 


64  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Not  with  your  lips,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  one  in 
the  world,  either,  except  you." 

"A  lot  of  good  I  will  be  to  you,"  said  Betty. 

"If  I  can  help  you,  you  will  be  of  more  use  to  me 
than  I  to  you,"  he  said  very  seriously.  "Don't  you  re- 
member, dear  Miss  Betty,  that  we  spoke  about  that  the 
other  day,  the  feeling  of  being  necessary  to  someone? 
Well,  this  is  my  chance,  my  opportunity  of  making  my- 
self indispensable  to  you,  and  it  is  going  to  make  me 
the  happiest  man  alive." 

He  had  led  the  way  up  to  the  little  rustic  summer 
house,  while  they  were  talking.  Slipping  the  bridle 
around  a  tree  trunk,  he  left  the  animal  to  munch  laurel 
leaves  and  clover,  and  then  returned  to  Betty's  side.  To- 
gether, side  by  side,  his  hand  clasping  her  arm  as  he 
helped  her  up  the  steps,  they  walked  into  the  little  rustic 
summer  house  and  sat  down.  He  released  her  arm. 
For  a  moment  they  sat  in  silence.  She  wanted  to  tell 
him  about  her  self-reproaches,  about  the  penultimate 
cruel  thing  she  had  said  to  her  mother.  She  wanted  him 
to  exonerate  her,  to  help  her  forget.  But  she  could  not 
find  the  right  words  in  which  to  tell  him.  And  sud- 
denly, while  he  was  looking  at  her,  she  began  to  speak, 
and  told  him  disjointedly,  unconnectedly,  with  disre- 
gard of  the  context,  that  she  had  told  her  mother  she 
hated  her. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  "You  must  tell  me  what  preceded 
that,  you  know.  You  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

His  quiet  assumption  of  gentle  authority  soothed  her 
immeasurably. 

"Because  she  wanted  me  to  marry  someone "  she 

wanted  to  say  someone  else,  but  stopped  herself  in  time, 
and  again,  as  before,  he  completed  her  thought  for  her. 

"Someone  else?" 

"Yes." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  65 

The  question  was  asked  and  answered  with  utmost 
calmness.  Then  Richard  Pryce  said  with  noble  sim- 
plicity : 

"You  must  not  worry  about  that.  If  your  mother 
could  see  you  now,  she  would  understand,  and  she  would 
be  happy  that  things  were  arranging  themselves  for  the 
best.  She  would  know  now  that  you  were  right  and 
she  wrong.  You  must  not  worry  now." 

Again  they  sat  in  silence,  side  by  side.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  hear  his  heart  beat.  Or  was  it  only 
her  own?  The  faint  odor  of  a  cigarette  hung  about 
him,  and  she  liked  it. 

Suddenly,  at  sight  of  her,  her  pallor  heightened  by 
her  mourning,  he  overflowed  with  pity. 

"You  poor  little  thing,"  he  said,  "you  poor  little 
thing."  Betty  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face.  Some  look 
in  his  eyes  went  to  her  brain  and  to  her  heart.  The 
memory  of  the  loneliness  and  the  horror  of  the  days 
which  she  had  lived  fell  upon  her  oppressively.  The 
purely  human  joy  of  being  in  close  proximity  to  some 
human  being  she  loved  swept  over  her. 

Hardly  aware  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  laid  her 
right  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  bending  over,  laid  a 
kiss  upon  his  cheek.  Then,  amazed,  and  more  horrified 
than  she  would  have  been  if  he  had  kissed  her  instead, 
she  drew  back. 

"Don't  think  me  quite,  quite  horrid,"  she  entreated. 
"I  have  been  so  lonely,  and  so  afraid." 

"You  poor  little  thing,"  he  repeated,  and  then  very 
gently  he  lifted  both  her  hands  to  his  lips,  kissing  first 
the  one  and  then  the  other  with  great  reverence. 

It  was  fortunate  indeed  for  Betty  that  the  boy  with 
whom  she  had  allowed  herself  this  unconventional  be- 
havior was  what  he  was.  A  woman  can  make  the  first 
advance  or  offer  the  first  caress  with  impunity  only  to 


66  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

a  man  of  pure  heart  and  untainted  mind.  A  libertine, 
a  man  of  pleasure,  a  roue  will  invariably  see  in  the 
most  innocent  caress  or  advance  an  offer  of  complete 
surrender,  because  to  a  man  of  that  calibre  every  caress 
has  to  do  with  the  passions,  and  the  affections  are  an 
unknown  and  uncomprehended  quantity.  Richard  Pryce, 
however,  was  pure  in  mind,  unseared  in  heart,  unstained 
in  imagination  as  Betty  herself,  and  he  realized  intuitively 
that  in  kissing  him  her  spirit  had  made  of  her  body  a  me- 
dium for  its  expression.  If  she  had  only  known  it, 
that  kiss  of  hers  consecrated  him  to  her  service  for  life. 
He  was  a  modest  boy.  He  had  never  played  the  Don 
Juan  as  some  boys  do  even  in  their  schooldays;  he  had 
pilfered  no  hair-ribbons  to  display  as  trophies,  had 
stolen  no  kisses  to  boast  of  as  kisses  voluntarily  yielded 
to  him.  No  woman  had  ever  kissed  him  before;  nor 
had  he  ever  desired  a  woman's  kisses.  The  adventure 
for  him,  as  for  Betty,  had  all  the  fragrance  and  sweet- 
ness of  first  love. 

"I  have  come,"  he  continued  bluntly,  "to  see  how 
you  are  fixed.  I  mean,  will  you  have  to  do  something  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  "I  will  have  to  try  to  find  work." 

"Then  I  have  an  offer  to  make  you." 

He  spoke  quickly,  as  if  anxious  to  get  through  with 
this  matter  of  business  on  which  he  had  come.  He 
seemed  a  trifle  ashamed  of  his  errand.  His  employer, 
Mr.  Telfer,  had  recalled  him  from  Penascapet  Summit, 
because  the  new  venture  had  not  been  successful.  Tel- 
fer's,  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  publisher  of  songs, 
librettos,  opera  scores  and  sheet  music,  always  engaged 
the  services  of  a  first-class  pianist  to  play  new  music  as 
well  as  classical  repertory  for  customers  desirous  of 
making  pianoforte  selections.  It  was  not  a  disagreeable 
position.  Richard  Pryce  had  met  many  interesting 
people,  some  of  them  musical  celebrities,  during  his 


THE    VOICE   OF   THE   HEART  67 

connection  with  Telfer's  in  this  capacity,  but  now,  after 
three  years,  Mr.  Telfer  had  decided  to  advance  Richard 
to  the  position  of  manager  of  the  circulating  music  li- 
brary, which  would  require  virtually  his  entire  time, 
and  his  former  position  was  thus  falling  vacant.  On 
hearing  of  the  death  of  Betty's  mother,  it  had  immedi- 
ately occurred  to  Richard  that  Betty  might  like  the 
position,  and  as  Mr.  Telfer  had  left  the  finding  of  the 
new  incumbent  entirely  to  Richard,  he  was  able  to  make 
her  the  offer.  He  had  asked  for  a  leave  of  absence  of 
two  days  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  it  in  per- 
son. 

"I  can  only  offer  you  eighteen  a  week  to  start  with," 
he  said  apologetically.  "It  is  not  a  fortune,  certainly, 
but  you  couldn't  do  better  elsewhere.  He  jumped  me 
from  eighteen  to  thirty  in  three  years,  which  is  not  bad. 
Thirty  dollars,"  he  added,  "is  almost  enough  to  get 
married  on." 

"Thirty  dollars,"  Betty  said  quietly,  "ought  to  help 
swell  the  Europe  Fund.  If  you  get  married,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  save  up  for  Europe." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  he  said.  "I  will  be  earning  more 
in  another  year.  Which  will  enable  me  to  get  married 
and  save  up  for  Europe  both." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  in  his  words 
and  in  his  eyes,  and  to  deflect  his  attention,  Betty 
pointed  to  a  russet  and  orange  chipmunk,  who  sat  on 
his  haunches,  his  bushy  tail  standing  up  like  a  plume. 
The  little  creature,  apprehensive  of  evil,  sat  perfectly 
still,  looking  at  Betty  in  stony  fascination. 

"Look,"  said  Betty. 

But  Richard  did  not  look  at  the  chipmunk.  He  was 
looking  at  Betty.  If  he  had  filled  Betty's  head  with  a 
hundred  and  one  delicious  new  thoughts,  Betty  had  filled 
his  heart  with  a  thousand  and  one  delicious  new  sensa- 


68  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

tions.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  experienced  such  a 
coursing  of  joy  through  his  entire  body.  He  had  sup- 
posed that  one  could  feel  the  body  only  when  in  pain, 
but  now  he  experienced  the  sensation  that  to  own  a 
body  was  a  supreme  and  intense  pleasure.  Ever  since 
he  had  sat  down  beside  Betty,  since  he  had  touched  her 
fingers,  and  more  particularly  since  he  had  felt  the  touch 
of  her  soft  lips  upon  his  cheek,  he  had  been  suffused 
with  an  agreeable,  drowsy  languor  very  much  like  the 
torpor  engendered  by  the  heavy  old  port  which  he  drank 
on  red-letter  days — Christmas,  New  Year's  and  Thanks- 
giving. But  the  languor  produced  by  the  wine  was 
heavy  and  material  compared  to  the  ecstasy  that  was 
now  flooding  him,  and  in  spite  of  which,  or  because  of 
which  he  seemed  burningly,  smartingly,  alive.  He  de- 
sired to  kiss  her,  but  he  told  himself  that  his  wish  for 
a  kiss  as  compared  to  the  kiss  she  had  voluntarily  given 
him  was  gross  and  raw.  He  suppressed  the  desire.  He 
would  not  have  offended  her  for  worlds.  He  would  not 
have  had  her  think  that  he  was  attempting  to  kiss  her, 
because  in  an  unguarded  moment  she  had  allowed  him 
a  glimpse  of  her  soul  by  kissing  him.  He  was  humbly 
eager  to  make  clear  to  himself  the  difference  between 
them.  She  ranked  barely  below  the  angels,  and  he — 
well,  he  had  discovered  quite  suddenly  that  he  was  no 
stranger  to  the  feelings  inherent  in  normal  manhood. 
But  the  discovery  did  not  displease  him. 

"Do  you  want  the  position?"  he  asked. 

"Do  I?     I  should  say  so." 

"Fine.     And  when  are  you  willing  to  start?" 

"The  sooner  the  better.  But  look  here,  Mr. "  she 

hesitated,  appalled  by  the  absurdity  of  calling  him  Mr. 
Pryce.  She  had  thought  of  him  as  Richard,  and  her 
lips  found  it  difficult  to  run  counter  to  her  thought. 

"I  say,  let  me  call  you  Betty,  and  you  call  me  Rich- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  69 

ard,  will  you?  I  told  Mr.  Telfer  we  were  old  friends, 
so  it's  an  innocent  hypocrisy  we  will  be  acting/' 

Betty  laughed.  She  became  mischievous.  She  wanted 
to  tantalize  him  ever  so  lightly.  She  had  never  under- 
stood why  girls  gloated  over  the  silly  pranks  they  played 
on  their  boy  friends.  Suddenly  she  comprehended. 

"I  won't  call  you  Richard,"  she  said. 

"Please  do.  Miss  Garside,  even  Miss  Betty,  is  so  for- 
mal." 

"I'll  compromise." 

"How?" 

"I'll  call  you  Dick— or  Dicky." 

"Dicky?" 

"Has  anyone  ever  called  you  Dicky  before?" 

"Not  a  soul." 

"Well,  then,"  she  cried  mischievously,  "I'm  giving 
you  an  individual  name,  a  name  that  hasn't  been  hack- 
neyed by  every  chance  acquaintance  of  yours." 

Having  said  that  much,  she  feared  that  she  had  said 
too  much.  She  blushed  furiously. 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed  shyly,  confusedly, 
happily.  Suddenly  the  effort  he  was  making  to  check 
himself  from  kissing  her  appeared  to  him  in  a  different 
light  than  before.  Since  she  had  kissed  him,  though 
the  kiss  had  flown  to  her  lips  directly  from  her  white 
little  soul,  was  it  not  churlish  of  him  to  pretend 
to  greater  self-command  than  she  had  exercised? 
His  soul,  too,  was  sincerely  set  upon  kissing 
her.  He  stooped  quickly,  and  brushed  her  cheek  with 
his  lips. 

"Dicky,  oh,  Dicky!" 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"I  merely  returned  what  I  had  no  right  to  keep,"  he 
explained.  They  were  both  blushing.  "Betty,  I  am  so 
happy.  As  soon  as  I  earn  forty  dollars  a  week  regu- 


70  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

larly,  and  I  think  that  will  be  very  soon,  you  are  going 
to  marry  me." 

"Such  presumption — we  have  met  just  three  times !" 

"We  have  met  three  times  only,  it  is  true,"  he  said 
soberly.  "But  ever  since  we  met  the  first  time,  our 
souls  have  been  inseparable.  Mine  clove  to  yours,  yours 
to  mine,  don't  you  know  that?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  know  that  you  have  changed  the  face  of 
the  universe  for  me?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  nothing  can  come  between  us?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  you  know  that  I  love  everything  about  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  soft,  drooping  hair,  and  your  eyes,  Betty,  your 
eyes,  which  in  expression  are  like  a  mountain  lake  be- 
fore a  storm,  inscrutable,  alluring,  mysterious.  And  I 
love  your  soft  little  white  hands,  Betty,  and  your  mouth, 
Betty — I  love  your  mouth  because  it  turns  up  at  both 
ends  as  if  to  express  that  you  are  always  looking  up- 
ward and  onward,  as  if  nothing  in  life  would  ever  un- 
dermine your  happy  outlook  upon  life." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  you  know  that  I  love  the  breathless,  fluttering 
way  you  have  of  answering  me,  don't  you,  Betty?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  love  your  name — Betty,  Betty  Garside — you 
know  that,  too?  Don't  you?" 

Betty  bubbled  over  with  merriment.  She  felt  she 
must  set  a  period  to  the  compliments,  veiled  as  ques- 
tions, which  he  was  hurling  at  her. 

"If  you  love  my  name,  why  do  you  want  me  to 
change  it?"  she  teased. 

"Because  I  want  you  to  love  my  name  as  much  as  I 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  71 

love  yours,  and  because,  if  you  do,  you  will  be  quite 
willing  to  change  from  yours  to  mine,"  he  retorted. 
"By  January  first,  perhaps  before,  I  will  find  means  of 
adding  to  my  income,  and  then " 

"Then  you  will  add  generously  each  week  to  your 
Europe  Fund,"  Betty  said  quickly,  "so  that,  in  time, 
you  may  become  a  great  artist." 

Richard  rose  and  kneeling  upon  the  bench  on  which 
Betty  was  sitting,  faced  the  sun,  which  floated  high 
and  serene  above  the  opposite  crest  of  mountains.  Enor- 
mous eddies  of  dense  white  cloud  steamed  up  from  the 
valleys,  hiding,  in  their  white,  opaque  embrace,  all  life 
and  its  manifold  activity  in  the  village  below.  The  hoot- 
hoot  of  an  invisible  locomotive  pierced  through  the 
surging  mist,  recalling  to  them  that  they  were  not  wholly 
alone  in  the  world.  The  tap-tap  of  a  woodpecker,  the 
flip-flap  of  ripe  acorns  upon  the  soft  earth  accentuated 
the  silence  rather  than  broke  it. 

"I  do  not  need  Europe  now,"  said  Richard.  "I  will 
become  a  great  artist  without  Europe." 

"Didn't  you  think  Europe  indispensable ?" 

"I  thought  so  formerly.  That  was  because  Europe 
meant  stimulus,  enchantment,  a  new  outlook.  Now  I 
have  found  that  at  home.  Of  course,"  he  hesitated, 
"if  I  could  afford  Europe,  it  would  help  me  wonder- 
fully. If  nothing  else,  the  prestige  of  having  studied 
abroad  means  so  much." 

"And  the  masters  ?" 

"Yes,  yes — the  teachers  abroad,  they  say,  are  finer 
than  ours." 

He  stood  in  silence  a  minute,  amazed  at  a  current  of 
mental  virility  that  was  sweeping  through  him.  Never 
before  had  he  experienced  such  a  sensation.  He  had 
been  skeptical  of  the  delightful  feeling  ascribed  to  being 
in  love  as  described  in  operas  and  novels.  But  this  feel- 


72  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  transcended  anything  he  had  ever  heard  or  read 
about.  He  told  himself  that,  with  this  feeling  locked 
in  his  heart  and  his  mind  there  was  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing  that  he  could  not  accomplish  as  an  artist.  And 
he  felt  a  boundless  gratitude  to  the  pale,  virginal,  black- 
haired  girl  who  had  created  these  feelings  in  him. 

"Betty,"  he  stood  before  her  flicking  some  pine 
needles  from  the  bench  with  his  whip.  "There  is  some- 
thing I  have  forgotten  to  say.  Are  you  going  to  board 
when  in  town?  Or  live  with  friends?  Telfer's  shop 
is  open  two  evenings  a  week  until  eleven,  and  in  lieu 
of  extra  pay  we  receive  two  free  afternoons  a  week  in 
return  for  our  evening  work.  You're  not  living  in  Har- 
lem or  the  Bronx,  are  you?" 

"Mother  and  I  lived  in  Harlem,"  Betty  replied.  "I 
would  have  to  find  a  new  boarding  place,  at  any  rate. 
I  don't  suppose  I  could  find  rooms  downtown,  could  I  ?" 

"I  am  sure  you  could."  He  hesitated.  "Will  you 
allow  me  to  find  you  a  room?  I  want  to  make  sure 
what  sort  of  a  house  you  get  into,  and  I  would  like  you 
to  be  not  too  far  from  my  boarding  place,  so  that  I  can 
call  for  you  and  see  you  home  Wednesdays  and  Satur- 
days, the  evenings  you  work  until  eleven." 

"Don't  you  work  the  same  nights  ?" 

"No.  Those  are  my  afternoons  off.  I  work  Tues- 
days and  Fridays.  But  I  shall  try  to  arrange  matters 
so  that  we  are  both  off  together  at  least  one  afternoon, 
preferably  Saturday." 

"Hasn't  your  landlady  a  room  for  me  ?"  Betty  queried 
innocently. 

"Mrs.  Presbey  has  a  room."  Richard  fell  silent.  "I 
did  not  suggest  your  coming  to  Mrs.  Presbey 's,  because 
I  didn't  know  how  you  would  feel  about  coming  to  the 
same  house,  you  know." 

"That's  true,"  Betty  faltered. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  73 

"Supposing,"  Richard  continued,  "I  ask  her  whether 
she  thinks  it  all  right?  We  can  safely  take  her  word." 

Betty  clasped  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  supplica- 
tion. She  sat  looking  at  him  without  replying. 

"She  is  a  very  charming  old  lady, — really,  a  gentle- 
woman, and  she  would  not  let  you  come  unless  she 
thought  it  just  right." 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  say  in  the  matter,"  Betty  said 
quietly. 

"Thank  you  for  trusting  me." 

He  pulled  the  watch  from  his  pocket,  and  whistled. 

"It's  eight  o'clock,"  he  said,  "and  I've  got  to  make 
the  9.05  from  Penascapet  Valley, — gives  me  barely 
time  to  ride  back  and  change  to  my  street  clothes.  Walk 
down  to  the  grove  of  pines,  will  you?" 

Betty  rose  with  alacrity,  and  they  walked  the  twenty 
yards  involved  in  silence,  her  arm  resting  lightly  on  his. 
In  a  dimple  of  the  road,  known  as  a  thank-ye-mum,  they 
stopped. 

"Good-bye,  darling,"  he  said;  "we  will  arrange  all 
particulars  by  letter." 

He  did  not  kiss  her  again.  To  kiss  her  lightly, 
quickly,  without  due  reverence,  he  felt  would  be  to  pro- 
fane her.  He  shook  hands  with  her  and  swung  himself 
lightly  into  the  saddle.  A  moment  later  the  winding 
road  eclipsed  him. 

Betty  turned.  In  the  middle  of  the  road,  gravely 
watching  her,  sat  the  chipmunk. 

"Eavesdropping  again?"  she  cried,  and  the  little  crea- 
ture scurried  away,  disappearing  among  ground  creep- 
ers, stunted  rhododendron  and  laurel,  huckleberry 
plants,  wintergreen  berries,  sassafras,  morning  glories 
and  a  few  yellow  alfalfa  blossoms  that  had  straggled 
up  from  a  farm  below. 

Betty,  reclimbing  the  distance  to  the  house,  thought 


74  THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART 

of  her  mother.  It  was  curious  that  she  should  be  able 
to  feel  so  happy  so  soon  after  her  great  grief.  All  her 
self-reproaches  had  been  swept  away  by  Richard's 
words.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  mother  was  very  close 
to  her,  and  was  rejoicing  at  her  good  fortune  in  having 
found  such  a  friend. 
And  while  she  smiled,  she  wept. 


CHAPTER   V 

If  Richard  Pryce  had  been  a  gay  Lothario,  a  heart- 
less and  unscrupulous  Lovelace,  a  past  master  in  the 
arts  of  seduction  and  an  expert  as  to  the  material  means 
of  accomplishment,  he  could  hardly  have  devised  a  plan 
more  filled  with  craftiness  for  the  undoing  of  a  maid 
than  the  innocent  scheme  he  had  evolved  of  bringing 
Betty  to  his  own  boarding  house  so  that  he  might  insti- 
tute himself  her  protector. 

Mrs.  Presbey,  his  landlady,  was  the  widow  of  a  phy- 
sician. Herself  a  woman  of  refinement  and  education, 
she  had  contrived  to  remain  every  inch  a  lady  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  she  rented  out  rooms.  She  occupied  a 
small  house  in  Irving  Place,  nearer  Gramercy  Square 
than  Fourteenth  Street.  It  was  a  very  small  house  in- 
deed, and  admitted  of  the  renting  of  three  rooms  only. 
Every  spring  Mrs.  Presbey  threatened  to  move  uptown 
and  "take  a  larger  house,"  and  every  spring  the  threat 
had  remained  an  idle  menace.  Richard  occupied  the 
large  room  to  the  rear,  one  flight  up,  where,  if  he  had 
a  mind  to,  he  could  practice  all  evening  without  disturb- 
ing anyone.  The  room  above  his  was  occupied  by  an 
obese  gentleman  of  uncertain  age,  inalterable  deafness 
and  asthmatic  inclinations,  who  lived  on  his  income  and 
spent  most  of  his  time  at  his  club.  The  front  room  on 
the  top  floor  was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Presbey  herself.  The 
remaining  room,  the  room  on  the  first  sleeping  floor, 
was  the  room  which  was  vacant,  and  which  Richard 
hoped  the  old  lady  might  be  willing  to  let  him  have  for 
Betty. 

75 


76  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

When  he  suggested  this,  Mrs.  Presbey  looked  at  him 
with  horror  in  her  eyes,  and  so  potent  is  the  moral 
indignation  of  age  that  Richard  felt  quite  as  much  em- 
barrassed upon  encountering  the  old  lady's  eyes  as  if 
he  had  actually  projected  the  profligacy  which  she 
seemed  to  impute  to  him. 

"Impossible,  Richard,"  she  cried,  for  she  had  taken 
to  calling  him  by  his  first  name. 

"Why  not?"  Richard  feigned  lamblike  innocence. 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Richard.  You  cannot  bring 
a  young  girl  of  your  acquaintance  to  live  in  the  same 
house  with  yourself." 

"Well,  if  a  young  girl  I  didn't  know  were  to  come 
here,  I  would  become  acquainted  with  her.  Would  you 
put  her  out  for  that  reason?" 

No  answer. 

"Come,  Mrs.  Presbey,  be  honest  with  me." 

"The  cases  are  utterly  dissimilar.  Miss  What's-her- 
name, — Garfield,  Gartwright,  cannot  come  here  to  live 
while  you  are  in  the  house." 

"Very  well,  then  I  will  move." 

"What ?" 

"Just  so." 

"Do  you  mean,  Richard,  that  you  will  move  to  a 
house  where  they  will  permit  you  to  bring  her  with 
you?" 

"Mrs.  Presbey!" 

The  old  lady  bridled ;  she  was  very  indignant. 

"I  mean,  Mrs.  Presbey,  that  I  will  move  elsewhere, 
so  she  can  come  here.  I  wouldn't  be  satisfied  to  have 
her  anywhere  but  under  your  roof." 

Richard  waited  until  that  crafty  compliment  had  sunk 
into  the  landlady's  heart,  and  then  continued  suavely: 

"Mother  Presbey,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  secret." 

"Urn." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  77 

"We're  engaged,  or  as  good  as  engaged." 

"What  does  that  mean?    As  good  as  engaged?" 

"Well,  I  haven't  really  proposed.  I — the  fact  is — I 
just  took  it  for  granted  that  she  would  marry  me,  and 
as  she  didn't  demur  I  suppose  I  may  truthfully  say  we 
are  engaged." 

"Well,  of  all  things " 

"Come  now,  be  nice  about  it.  Let  me  bring  her  here, 
and  stay  here  myself  as  well." 

"If  you  really  are  engaged,  and  I  do  not  quite  com- 
prehend the  situation,  1  admit,  it  makes  the  matter  worse 
than  ever.  Miss  Garfield " 

"Garside,  if  you  please." 

"Cannot  come  here.  In  my  day  engaged  couples  were 
allowed  to  see  each  other  only  twice  a  week." 

"A  silly  rule." 

"A  wise  rule.  Young  folks  are  young  folks,  and 
young  folks  who  are  engaged  are  doubly  young  folks, 
and  the  devil  has  kept  his  hand  well  in  practice  at  the 
game  of  temptation,  if  we  may  believe  the  newspapers." 

"Mrs.  Presbey !"  It  was  a  very  red  and  angry  Rich- 
ard that  glared  down  upon  the  little  white-haired  woman. 
"Miss  Garside  is  the  sweetest  and  best  and  purest  girl 
that  ever  lived,  and " 

"I  have  not  said  a  word  against  Miss  Garside,"  Mrs. 
Presbey  interrupted  Richard  with  asperity.  "I  was 
never  one  to  blame  the  woman.  I  always  blame  the 
man." 

The  anticlimax  made  Richard  laugh.    He  said : 

"I  never  thought  that  you  would  doubt  me." 

"I  don't  doubt  you,  but,  my  boy,  an  ounce  of  pre- 
yention  is  worth  a  pound  of  cure." 

Richard  hid  his  laughter.    He  cajoled: 

"Think,  Mother  Presbey,  when  I'm  gone,  who  will 
'see  that  I  have  the  proper  blend  of  tea  and  very  thin 


78  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

toast  when  I  get  home  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  too 
tired  to  eat  anything  else?  Who,  when  I  get  a  gastric 
attack,  will  boil  me  barley  water?  Who  will  prepare 
my  eggs  by  pouring  boiling  water  on  them,  instead  of 
boiling  them,  because  boiled  eggs  make  me  bilious? 
Who,  I  say,  will  do  all  that  for  me  if  you  force  me  to 


move  away 


Mrs.  Presbey  was  in  tears  at  this  picture  of  Rich- 
ard's desolation. 

"I  force  you  to  move  away?"  she  cried.  "Heaven 
forbid.  I  cannot  see  your  digestion  ruined.  I  cannot 
risk  that.  I  will  take  the  other  risk  instead.  Bring 
your  Miss  Garfield,  Gartwright,  Garson,  or  whatever 
her  name  is,  if  you  wish." 

There  ensued  a  week  of  room-renovating  such  as 
Mrs.  Presbey  had  never  lived  through  before.  Fre- 
quently Richard  had  had  occasion  to  see  the  interior  of 
the  room  which  Betty  was  to  occupy.  The  last  lodger 
had  been  an  old  Frenchwoman  for  whom  Richard  had 
sometimes  played  her  favorite  selections  with  the  hall 
doors  open  to  permit  the  passage  of  sound.  She  had 
been  a  hideous  old  woman  and  had  died  of  gangrene  a 
week  after  being  taken  to  a  hospital.  Richard  had  for- 
merly thought  the  room  comfortable.  Now  he  dis- 
covered that  the  color  scheme  was  atrocious,  if  one 
could  dignify  a  threadbare  Brussels  carpet,  on  which 
only  the  garish  red  roses  retained  their  original  color- 
ing, and  a  peacock  blue  wall-paper  by  so  authoritative  a 
term  as  color  scheme.  The  black  walnut  furniture,  built 
in  the  amorphous  mid-Victorian  style,  with  marble  slab 
tops  on  bureau  and  table,  and  black  horsehair  on  the 
seats  of  chair  and  sofa,  were  unspeakable,  and  when 
Mrs.  Presbey  pointed  with  pride  to  the  modern  brass 
bedstead,  Richard  became  violently  denunciatory. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  Richard  had  seen 


THE    VOICE    OF   THE   HEART  79 

Madame  Zournier  in  bed  on  one  occasion,  when  cos- 
metics, false  hair  and  artificial  teeth  had  been  wanting 
to  relieve  her  general  repulsiveness.  It  was  insufferable 
to  think  that  the  same  bed  that  had  held  the  grotesquely 
horrible  Frenchwoman  should  feel  the  precious  weight 
of  Betty's  white,  chaste,  virginal  body.  The  thought 
was  so  vivid  that  it  assumed  the  form  of  a  picture.  He 
seemed  to  see  the  form  of  the  girl  he  loved — the  slim, 
firm  young  limbs  with  their  long  gracious  lines  stretched 
at  full  length  upon  a  white,  curtained  bed  in  a  dim,  cool 
room.  He  saw  her  head  reposing  upon  the  pillow,  her 
hands  clasped  above  the  black  curls,  showing  the  exqui- 
site white  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow.  The  very  atmos- 
phere was  filled  with  her  essence.  He  seemed  to  per- 
ceive even  the  delicious  perfume  of  her  wholesome,  soft 
young  body — the  perfume  of  her  hair,  of  her  skin,  the 
pressure  of  her  hands,  the  touch  of  her  lips. 

A  sensation,  almost  of  pain,  such  as  he  had  never 
experienced  before,  stabbed  him.  His  heart  beat  vio- 
lently. His  pulses  leapt.  He  tried  to  expel  the  vision, 
and  to  do  so  effectually  he  continued  to  berate  the  style 
of  the  bed,  mechanically  using  the  same  phrases  of  con- 
demnation again  and  again.  Amid  much  pother  and 
fuss  he  alighted  upon  a  picture  of  Holof ernes  being 
murdered  by  Judith.  This  was  execrable,  an  impossible 
adjunct  to  a  delicate-minded  young  girl's  room. 

He  called  to  his  assistance  the  Norwegian  maid  of  all 
work,  an  Amazon  in  stature,  with  the  hair  and  com- 
plexion of  a  Lorelei,  and  before  Mrs.  Presbey  could 
help  herself,  he  had  taken  the  furniture  apart,  and  was 
moving  it  into  the  storeroom. 

Mrs.  Presbey  expostulated  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  buy  an  entirely  new  set  of  furniture.  Richard 
retorted  that  it  was  not  impossible  by  any  means  since 
good  furniture  was  to  be  had  in  dozens  of  stores.  As 


80  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

to  the  cost,  he  of  course  intended  defraying  all  expenses, 
but  it  was  out  of  the  question  for  his  Betty  not  to  have 
the  best  of  everything.  He  chafed  because  it  was  Sun- 
day and  no  shops  were  open  to  admit  of  immediate  pur- 
chases. He  turned  the  entire  house,  cellar,  storeroom 
and  living-room  upside  down  because  he  remembered 
there  had  been  a  catalogue  of  Grand  Rapids  furniture 
makers  in  the  house.  When,  finally,  after  an  hour's 
search  conducted  in  a  hurricane  of  excitement,  the  Nor- 
wegian maid  discovered  the  catalogue  under  the  ash  bar- 
rel in  the  yard,  Richard  decided  peremptorily  that  they 
were  of  no  use  at  any  rate,  as  even  telegraphic  orders 
would  hardly  bring  the  furniture  to  New  York  before 
the  end  of  two  weeks — too  late  to  have  the  room  ready 
for  Betty's  arrival.  Then,  Sunday  or  no  Sunday,  he 
insisted  on  taking  up  the  vitiated  Brussels  carpet,  be- 
cause he  must  needs  convince  himself  that  the  flooring' 
was  in  good  condition. 

"Why  not  have  parquetry  floors  ?"  Mrs.  Presbey  asked 
with  fine  scorn.  Richard  replied  seriously  that  that 
would  be  the  very  thing,  but  abandoned  the  plan  be- 
cause time  was  pressing. 

Nothing  less  than  an  Axminster  rug  would  do  for 
Betty;  furniture,  chairs,  chiffonier  and  Davenport  of 
Circassian  walnut;  last  of  all  he  rented  a  baby  grand, 
and  raved  and  stormed  and  ranted  about  the  house  like 
a  madman  for  an  entire  evening  because  the  piano- 
maker  sent  a  rosewood  case  instead  of  Circassian  wal- 
nut. He  himself  stained  the  floors  after  caulking  them, 
to  Mrs.  Presbey 's  consternation;  for  Richard  was  her 
divinity,  and  it  seemed  little  short  of  sacrilege  to  the 
dear  old  lady  to  see  her  idol  kneeling  on  the  floor,  ordi- 
nary workman's  tools  in  his  magic  fingers  and  callous- 
ing with  unspeakable  little  tacks  and  a  paint  brush  the 
hands  that  were  capable  of  producing  such  ravishing 
music. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  81' 

The  bills  for  rug,  papering,  furniture  and  pictures 
aggregated  eight  hundred  dollars.  This  diminished  the 
Europe  Fund  to  a  bare  three  hundred.  Mrs.  Presbey, 
who  shared  his  financial  secrets,  being  sworn  to  secrecy 
as  to  the  fact  that  he  had  defrayed  all  expenses  for 
Betty's  room,  shook  her  head,  as  old  ladies  have  a  pro- 
voking way  of  doing,  to  show  their  disapprobation  of 
their  junior's  antics.  Richard  thereupon  caught  her 
about  the  waist  and  waltzed  through  the  room  with  her, 
kissing  her  thrice  on  each  withered  cheek,  and  when  he 
deposited  her,  breathless  and  half-angry,  upon  one  of 
Betty's  new  chairs,  he  brushed  away  her  pretended 
anger  by  telling  her  that  he  knew  she  had  been  just  as 
sweet  as  his  Betty  when  she  had  been  a  girl,  and  he 
only  hoped  that  his  Betty  would  grow  into  so  charming 
an  old  lady  as  herself.  Neither  of  which  statements 
were  sincere,  for  the  young  rascal  was  convinced  that 
nowheres  in  the  world,  not  in  the  present,  past  or  fu- 
ture, there  had  been,  or  was,  or  would  be  such  a  para- 
gon, such  a  nonpareil,  as  his  Betty. 

All  was  propitious,  then,  and  after  Betty's  arrival 
there  followed  Arcadian  days.  They  seemed  to  draw 
a  magic  circle  about  each  other  those  first  weeks,  which 
no  hostile  personality  had  the  power  to  invade.  If  they 
had  been  alone  in  the  universe,  they  could  not  have  been 
more  isolated  than  they  were  now  in  the  heart  of  the 
great  city.  Perhaps  lovers  are  never  quite  normal. 
These  two  saw  everything  through  a  transcendent  golden 
haze,  of  which  they  themselves  were  the  nucleus.  Per- 
sons, environment,  the  commonplaces  of  life  were  their 
stage-setting,  barely  the  supporting  cast,  of  the  drama 
which  they  were  enacting  for  their  own  delectation.  It 
was  an  unexampled  adventure. 

They  went  to  a  theatre  once  a  week,  and  once  a  week 
to  a  concert.  Twice  or  thrice  they  went  in  the  full 


82  THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART 

panoply  of  pomp,  on  two-dollar  seats,  going  and  com- 
ing in  a  taxicab,  with  a  dinner  at  Martin's  and  a  sup- 
per at  Sherry's  and  one  or  two  lavender  orchids  for 
Betty  to  wear.  But  Betty  demurred  against  this  ex- 
travagance, and  she  exercised  great  ingenuity  in  invent- 
ing pretty  excuses  for  preferring  gallery  seats  at  sev- 
enty-five cents  to  orchestra  chairs,  and  a  forty-cent 
table  d'hote  dinner  to  a  sumptuous  repast  at  Sherry's 
or  Rector's.  There  was  more  atmosphere  in  the  gallery, 
she  said,  because  all  the  impecunious  art  and  music  stu- 
'dents  sat  there,  while  stalls  and  orchestra  chairs  were 
occupied  by  persons  who  were  present  not  for  love  of 
music  or  the  drama,  but  for  the  purpose  of  displaying 
their  clothes,  or  their  shoulders,  or  their  diamonds. 
Betty  had  no  desire  to  play  the  parvenu.  Such  ma- 
terial splendor  absolutely  diverted  the  attention  from 
the  higher  enjoyment  of  art.  And  a  forty-cent  dinner 
was  to  be  preferred  to  a  feast  because,  since  it  did  not 
taste  as  good,  one  was  not  tempted  to  eat  so  much,  thus 
leaving  an  edge  on  the  spiritual  appetite,  which  was 
not  the  case  when  the  grosser  appetites  had  been  sated 
to  the  point  of  repletion.  Dicky  took  these  little  ser- 
mons in  good  part.  He  knew  enough  of  women  both 
from  observation  and  hearsay  to  know  that  during  the 
average  courtship  the  woman  is  likely  to  be  an  elegant 
sort  of  vampire  or  shark,  whose  sole  endeavor  is  to 
get  what  she  can  in  the  way  of  amusement  and  sweet- 
meats and  drives.  How  different  was  his  Betty!  He 
told  himself  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  he  was  the  luck- 
iest of  men  and  that  his  Betty  was  an  angel. 

Then  there  was  the  joy  of  hearing  each  other  play 
and  sing.  Richard's  playing  left  Betty  breathless  with 
pleased  astonishment,  and  her  voice,  when  one  evening 
she  began  to  hum  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  sent  him  into 
transports  of  enthusiasm.  He  began  to  teach  Betty  to 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  83 

sing  that  very  evening,  for  she  had  never  had  a  singing 
lesson  in  her  life,  and  he  was  amazed  and  enchanted 
with  the  strength  and  volume  of  her  voice  as  it  began 
to  develop. 

"Betty,"  he  said  one  evening,  at  the  end  of  a  half- 
hour's  vocal  practice,  "I  think  your  voice  is  quite  re- 
markable. With  proper  training,  I  believe  you  will 
make  a  much  greater  singer  than  I  a  pianist." 

"If  you  say  that  again,  Dicky,  I  shall  sing  for  you 
no  more,"  Betty  retorted.  "One  genius  in  the  family  is 
quite  enough,  thank  you."  And  she  repeated  the  musi- 
cal phrase,  which  she  had  been  singing,  holding  the  last 
note  so  long  that  it  seemed  to  promise  eternal  duration. 

Betty's  voice  was  a  soft,  mellow  mezzo-soprano,  and 
Richard  believed  that  under  the  tuition  of  an  expert 
teacher,  the  range  of  Betty's  voice  might  become  so1 
extended  as  to  change  it  into  a  soprano.  But  he  did 
not  trust  himself  to  attempt  the  metamorphosis.  Her 
voice  was  wonderfully  pure  and  flexible;  there  was 
only  one  quality  in  her  voice  that  perplexed  him.  It 
was  cold  as  ice.  There  was  no  warmth  in  it,  and  it 
communicated  no  warmth  to  him,  although  he  was  so 
much  in  love  with  her  by  this  time  that  the  contem- 
plation of  any  one  of  her  perfections,  or  the  accidental 
touch  of  hand  or  fingers,  when  he  tried  to  forestall  her 
in  turning  the  sheet  music,  raised  him  to  the  pitch  of 
delirium.  There  were  days  when  he  did  not  dare  to 
kiss  her  or  take  her  in  his  arms,  so  cruelly  turbulent 
was  his  blood  for  hours  afterwards  in  recollection  of 
the  endearment. 

Richard  was  fast  approaching  the  danger-point  when 
kisses  and  the  usual  caresses  of  courtship  are  no  longer 
an  outlet  of  the  emotions.  He  was  holding  himself 
well  in  hand.  He  was  stifling  desire,  suffocating  pas- 
sion by  sheer  force  of  will.  But  the  dikes  that  held 


84  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

back  emotion  and  the  tumultuous  flood  coursing  in  his 
veins  were  weakening  perceptibly,  and  he  knew  it. 

Because  they  had  to  do  with  music,  it  pleased  them 
to  regard  themselves  as  Bohemians  of  the  "Quartier 
Latin"  of  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York.  To  foster  their 
Bohemian  propensities  they  made  an  expedition  to  an 
East  Houston  Street  restaurant,  of  whose  unregeneracy 
and  splendid  cooking  Dicky  had  heard  a  good  deal. 
They  were  sure  that  something  very  terrible  happened 
there  every  night.  Just  what  the  very  terrible  thing 
was  neither  he  nor  she  could  imagine.  But  after  all 
their  anticipatory  thrills  nothing  happened  but  that  a 
few  girls  who  had  tossed  off  a  little  more  wine  than 
was  good  for  them  sat  on  their  "gentlemen  friends' " 
knees  and  kissed  them.  Then  Dicky  flushed  and  Betty 
blushed,  and  in  a  little  while  they  came  away  vocifer- 
ously protesting  to  each  other  that  "it  was  horrid,"  but 
he,  at  least,  was  secretly  disappointed  that  nothing  more 
had  happened. 

Dicky's  Bohemianism  was  not  wholly  assumed.  When 
he  was  not  rhapsodizing  at  the  piano,  he  had  a  habit  of 
stalking  about  Betty's  rooms,  his  long,  slender  body 
moving  hither  and  thither  with  incredible  swiftness.  All 
the  while  he  smoked  innumerable  cigarettes  and  dis- 
coursed on  every  topic  under  the  sun.  The  ashes  from 
his  cigarettes  he  deposited  wherever  he  happened  to  be 
standing,  on  mantel,  book-cover,  or  magazine.  One 
night  he  chanced  upon  a  small  china  drinking-cup  from 
which  Betty  drank  hot  water  mornings  and  evenings, 
and  promptly  he  deposited  his  ashes  therein.  After 
that  Betty  drank  her  hot  water  from  a  glass,  for  the 
ashes  of  her  Dicky's  cigarettes  were  sacred  to  her.  She 
treasured  the  ashes  for  several  days;  then,  one  evening 
when  she  was  very  sleepy  because  she  had  been  out  the 
hight  before,  she  forgot,  and  poured  her  hot  water  into 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  85 

the  cup  and  drank  it  off  by  mistake.  She  wept  for  half 
an  hour  to  think  the  relic  had  such  an  unromantic  end, 
and  then  she  began  to  worry  about  the  effect  of  diluted 
cigar  ashes  upon  her  system.  She  was  undecided 
whether  to  take  an  emetic  or  castor  oil.  But  she  had 
neither  in  her  room,  and  finally  she  went  to  bed,  con- 
vinced that  she  was  going  to  die  in  agony  through  the 
night.  And  she  sobbed  bitterly  on  picturing  to  herself 
Dicky's  woe  on  finding  her  gone.  But  she  was  very 
tired,  and  waiting  for  one's  own  death  throes  when  one 
is  eighteen  and  has  done  a  hard  day's  work  is  a  tedious 
task.  She  fell  asleep  and  awoke  the  next  morning  filled 
with  utter  amazement  to  find  she  was  still  alive. 

So  much  for  Arcady.  The  days  of  their  sojourn  in 
that  uncharted  land  were  numbered.  They  were  fast 
drawing  to  a  close. 


CHAPTER   VI 

Arcady  came  to  an  end  on  November  3rd,  having 
lasted  just  three  months  and  three  days.  It  happened 
in  this  way. 

The  day  was  a  Sunday,  and  they  had  gone  for  a  long 
tramp  through  the  Staten  Island  woods.  They  ate  a 
dinner  of  boiled  dandelion  and  corned  beef  at  a  farm- 
house and  declared  it  a  banquet  fit  for  a  king.  Then 
they  sallied  forth  again  and  tramped  until  dusk.  The 
day  had  been  one  of  those  perfect  Indian  summer  days 
when  the  general  decay  of  nature  seems  not  only  to 
halt  on  the  down  stretch,  but  to  be  reversed.  Twilight 
came  in  a  blaze  of  turquoise  and  rose.  They  sat  down 
upon  the  gnarled  and  rheumatic-looking  roots  of  an  old 
oak  standing  upon  a  knoll  of  ground  near  the  road. 
The  eager,  nipping  air  had  whipped  every  drop  of  blood 
in  their  bodies  into  a  sense  of  being  cryingly  alive,  and 
to  be  cryingly  alive  meant  one  thing  only  for  Richard 
these  days. 

He  had  taken  small  joy  in  the  excursion,  and  had 
been  silent  and  taciturn  all  day.  His  feelings  for  Betty 
had  reached  their  culmination.  Formerly  tempestuous 
passion  had  swept  through  him  only  when  away  from 
her,  and  his  desire  had  been  vague,  undefined,  general. 
Lately  he  suffered  most  when  with  her,  and  his  need 
of  her  was  now  distressingly  well-defined.  Palavering 
with  himself  was  no  longer  possible.  He  desired  her 
ardently  every  moment  of  the  day  and  night.  His  love 
for  her  now  transcended  every  other  emotion.  His  need 

86 


THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART  87* 

for  her  was  monumental.  He  suffered  incessantly.  De- 
sire to  possess  her  obsessed  him.  Intimate  thoughts  of 
her  assailed  him  like  the  breath  from  a  fiery  furnace. 
Try  as  he  would,  and  he  tried  with  every  atom  of  the 
manhood  that  was  in  him  to  quell  the  strange  insurrec- 
tion of  his  blood,  he  did  not  succeed.  It  almost  seemed 
to  him  that  the  more  he  strove  to  control  himself  the 
more  he  suffered. 

Betty,  entirely  ignorant  of  his  tormented  state,  began 
teasing  him. 

"Poor  Dicky,  are  you  so  tired?  Lean  up  against  my 
knee  and  rest."  She  put  both  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
kissed  him  gently  and  drew  his  head  back  against  her 
knee.  He  repulsed  her,  shook  himself  free  almost 
roughly,  and,  pulsing  with  passion,  but  still  self-con- 
trolled, sat  as  straight  as  a  ramrod. 

"Gloomy  Gus,"  she  mocked.  "No,  that  won't  do  at 
all.  Let  me  see,  what  alliterates  with  Dicky — Detrimen- 
tal Dicky,  Ducky  Dicky,  Darling  Dicky."  Here  she 
tickled  the  back  of  his  neck  with  a  straw. 

"Stop  it,"  growled  Richard  savagely.  Some  current 
seemed  to  be  communicated  to  him  from  her  fingers 
with  the  straw  as  a  connective.  Every  nerve  in  his  body 
tingled. 

"I've  got  it,"  she  laughed,  throwing  her  head  back  as 
if  to  more  easily  emit  the  flood  of  jubilant  mischief  that 
came  bubbling  from  her  lips.  "Doleful  Dicky." 

"If  you  don't  stop,  I'll  alliterate  you." 

"Try — I  don't  believe  you  can." 

To  escape  the  straw,  with  which  she  was  still  wor- 
rying him,  he  changed  his  position,  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  haven't  the  ability?"  he  asked, 
"or  that  there  are  no  words  in  the  dictionary  to  suit 
your  case?" 


88  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"No  words  to  suit  my  case!  The  idea!  Detestable 
Dicky, — oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  that,"  and  to  cover  the 
slip  she  put  her  arms  around  him  and  laid  a  lingering 
kiss  upon  his  cheek. 

"Does  that  soothe  the  feelings  of  my  dilly-dallying 
darling,  ducky,  doleful  Dicky?" 

Her  kiss  added  to  his  misery.  But  he  tried  valiantly 
to  continue  the  game. 

"I  see  there's  nothing  to  be  done,  Betty,  but  to  alliter- 
ate you." 

"Instead  of  threatening  to  do  it,  do  it,  if  you  can." 

"Bitter-sweet  Betty." 

"A  silly  word.  Besides,  I  am  all  sweet,  am  I  not, 
Dicky?  There  is  nothing  bitter  about  me,  is  there?" 

"I'm  not  so  certain." 

"Richard !" 

"Heavens,  now  you  will  begin  alliterating  Richard  to 
punish  Dicky." 

"Dicky  never  misbehaves;  it  is  only  Richard  who  re- 
quires chastisement." 

"Why?    How  so?" 

Betty  thoughtfully  ran  a  dry  blade  of  grass  along  her 
teeth. 

"Well,  Richard  is  masterful,  full  of  odd  notions  about 
not  caring  about  Europe,  careless  of  the  Europe  Fund, 
careless  of  his  future  as  an  artist." 

"Cut  it  out." 

"Why,  Dicky,  you  look  positively  danger6us.  Ah! 
Dangerous  Dicky." 

"Look  out,  Bossy  Betty,  or  Dicky  may  become  dan- 
gerous." 

"In  what  way?"  she  asked  wheedlingly.  "Won't  he 
buy  me  a  supper  to-night?  Won't  he  take  me  to  the 
Sunday  night  concert?  Well,  Dangerous  Dicky,  speak 
up." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  89 

"Bossy  Betty,  I'll  be  dangerous  in  a  different  way. 
I'll  hire  an  aeroplane  to  kidnap  you,  and  I'll  never  set 
you  down  on  earth  again  until  you  promise  to  marry 
me  out  of  hand." 

"Who  wants  to  be  set  down  on  earth  again?"  She 
bubbled  over  with  laughter.  "I  would  love  to  live  in 

the  clouds.  Dangerous  Dicky "  She  pulled  a  box 

of  chocolates  out  of  his  coat  pocket  which  he  had  been 
carrying  for  her,  and  opened  it.  "Dreamy  Dicky — 
that's  more  like  it — dreamy,  downcast,  silly  little  Dicky." 

She  had  selected  a  chocolate  and  sat  surveying  it. 

"Dicky !" 

The  bantering  note  had  died  out  of  her  voice.  She 
held  a  chocolate  up  between  two  dainty  waxen  fingers 
in  which  the  nails  lay  like  bits  of  exquisitely-carved 
pink  jade. 

"Dicky,  this  is  a  chocolate  raspberry  jelly.  Try  it! 
You  shan't  refuse!  You  must!" 

"Bossy  Betty  again!"  He  was  still  trying  to  keep 
himself  in  hand,  to  check  the  passion  that  was  sweeping 
through  him  with  such  force  that  every  nerve  in  his 
body  sang  and  hummed  like  an  electric  wire  during  a 
thunderstorm. 

"Come,  Dicky — open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes, 
and  I'll  give  you  something  to  make  you " 

Betty  did  not  enunciate  the  last  word  of  the  old  nurs- 
ery rhyme.  Something  in  his  eyes,  a  look  she  had 
never  seen  there  before,  wiped  the  words  from  her  lips. 
She  sat  stock-still,  looking  at  him  in  fascinated  surprise. 

"Betty,  Betty!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  and  clasping  his 
arms  about  her  shoulders,  he  began  kissing  her  fever- 
ishly, with  a  sort  of  maddened  abandon.  He  sought  to 
kiss  her  mouth,  which  his  lips  had  never  yet  touched, 
and  of  which,  lying  awake  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  he  had  thought  often  and  often  as  a  famish- 


90  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  man  thinks  of  bread,  or  as  a  connoisseur  of  wine 
thinks  of  a  treasured  bottle  of  Madeira  of  rare  vintage. 
He  had  thought  to  enjoy  that  first  kiss  leisurely,  deli- 
cately, as  a  man  of  culture  and  refined  tastes  enjoys* 
a  splendid  painting  or  fine  music;  and  now  he  was 
struggling  wildly  to  obtain  the  coveted  privilege,  as  men 
threatened  with  asphyxiation  struggle  for  air. 

"Betty,  Betty,"  he  panted,  kissing  her  blindly,  crazily, 
without  direction, — kissing  her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  her 
neck  and  shoulders  through  the  lingerie  waist  under  the 
open  coat, — "Betty,  Betty!" 

At  first  she  had  passively  submitted  to  his  kisses,  but 
her  passivity  was  not  due  to  acquiescence,  merely  to 
surprise.  Then,  twisting  twirling,  writhing,  trying  to 
escape  from  his  greedy  mouth  and  his  eager  hands,  she 
managed  to  free  herself  from  his  embrace.  She  was 
terrified  into  silence.  She  could  not  believe  that  this 
madman,  whose  kisses  bruised  her  flesh,  whose  arms 
seemed  like  the  coils  of  a  serpent,  could  be  her  gentle 
and  reverent  Dicky.  She  bounded  to  her  feet ;  he  after 
her.  She  stumbled  away. 

"Don't  run  away  from  me,  Betty,"  he  called  out.  "I 
did  not  mean  to  frighten  you.  Don't  run — you'll  hurt 
yourself.  Look  out." 

The  warning  came  too  late.  The  partially  unearthed 
loop  of  an  enormous  tree-bole  caught  her  foot,  and  with 
a  little  cry  she  pitched  forward,  tried  to  catch  herself, 
only  to  fall  stumblingly.  She  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of 
pain.  Richard  was  at  her  side  even  before  she  had 
extricated  the  injured  member,  and  helped  her  rise. 
She  gave  another  cry  of  distress. 

"I've  twisted  my  ankle,  Dicky, — I  cannot  rise, — I 
cannot  get  up!  What  in  all  the  world  are  we  going 
to  do?" 

"I  guess  you  will  have  to  let  me  get  off  the  shoe 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  91 

before  the  ankle  begins  to  swell,  and  tie  my  handker- 
chief around  it  as  firmly  as  possible,"  he  suggested. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it." 

He  entreated;  she  refused.  The  sun  had  gone  down, 
the  afterglow  was  thin  and  meager.  Darkness  crept  up 
about  them,  making  the  landscape, — brown  barren  fields, 
tree  boles  and  fantastic  branches — look  weird  and  un- 
natural, like  one  of  Rackham's  drawings.  Shadows 
stole  forth  from  earth  and  upturned  roots  like  hobgob- 
lins; odd  shapes  crept  toward  them  from  the  road  and 
mocked  them;  and  the  clouds  turned  to  purple  canopies 
that  threatened  to  fall  upon  them. 

Finally  she  consented  to  allow  him  to  carry  her  down 
from  the  knoll  to  the  road. 

"I'll  run  back  to  the  farmhouse  we  passed,  Betty, 
and  get  them  to  hitch  up  a  wagon." 

"Oh,  Dicky,  don't  leave  me, — I'm  frightened  to 
death." 

"But,  Betty,  darling,  we  cannot  stay  here  all  night." 

"The  village  isn't  more  than  a  mile  away.  I  remem- 
ber this  part  of  the  road  perfectly.  I  can  walk  it." 

"Dearest — you  cannot." 

"I  can." 

She  walked  a  few  steps,  only  to  collapse  again,  this 
time  without  having  uttered  a  sound.  But  her  cheek 
was  wet  with  tears. 

"And  it's  all  my  fault,"  he  said,  filled  with  self- 
loathing  and  abasement. 

"Mine,  Dicky,  for  running  away  from  your  kisses." 
She  strove  to  speak  merrily,  as  if  sitting  in  the  middle 
of  an  unlighted  country  road, — miles  away  from  any- 
where, with  a  sprained  ankle  as  the  result  of  a  nervous 
shock, — were  part  of  the  ordinary  program  of  her  life. 

"Dicky,  I  have  an  idea.  Before  it  gets  darker,  try 
to  find  me  a  strong  limb  of  a  tree  with  a  fork  formed 


92  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

by  two  diverging  branches,  and  I  will  use  it  as  a 
crutch." 

He  complimented  her  upon  her  ingenuity,  and  ran 
off,  returning  in  a  few  moments  with  a  miscellaneous 
assortment  of  branches.  He  had  come  upon  a  lot  of 
dead  timber  heaped  up  against  a  stone  hedge,  and  had 
discovered  half  a  dozen  of  possible  crutches.  They 
selected  the  most  suitable  branch.  Dicky  tied  his  own 
and  Betty's  handkerchiefs  around  the  forked  end  as  a 
pillow.  Then  they  began  their  journey. 

It  was  laborious  and  painful  traveling.  Betty  bore 
her  agony  like  a  soldier,  but  when  they  finally  reached 
Stapleton,  having  walked  a  mile  and  taken  three  and 
a  half  hours  to  do  it  in,  Betty  fainted  dead  away.  At 
the  drug  store  to  which  Dick  and  a  passerby  carried  her, 
it  was  found  that  the  ankle  was  so  swollen  that  it  was 
necessary  to  cut  the  shoe  in  order  to  get  it  off.  The 
druggist's  wife  got  her  some  warm  milk  to  drink,  while 
the  druggist,  an  old  man  in  a  dark  blue  velvet  smoking 
jacket,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  stepped  out  of  Thacke- 
ray's pages,  applied  compresses  of  arnica  and  witch- 
hazel. 

"How  soon  can  you  get  her  home?"  he  asked. 

"About  an  hour  and  a  half,"  said  Dicky.  "I  suppose 
there  is  a  garage  here  somewhere,  so  I  can  get  an  auto 
or  a  taxi." 

"I'll  telephone  for  you,"  said  the  druggist,  "and  I'll 
give  you  a  bottle  of  this  stuff  to  take  with  you.  It's  a 
cold  night,"  he  shivered  a  little,  "so  I  will  get  you  a 
closed  vehicle,  and  I  will  make  a  fresh  application  just 
before  she  leaves.  Then,  as  soon  as  you  get  her  home, 
you  want  to  apply  either  ice  or  hot-water  compresses. 
One  is  as  good  as  the  other,  but  whichever  you  apply, 
you'll  have  to  continue  with  through  the  night  at  inter- 
vals of  twenty  minutes.  If  you  do  this,  the  foot  will  be 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  93 

all  right  by  to-morrow  evening.  Otherwise  the  young 
lady  will  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  a  bad  time !"  He  shook 
his  head  dolefully. 

The  instructions  seemed  easy  enough.  Mrs.  Presbey 
would  probably  arrange  to  take  turns  with  Nora,  the 
Swedish  Lorelei-haired  Amazon,  in  tending  Betty.  Rich- 
ard felt  that  the  matter  was  adjusting  itself  more  easily 
than  he  had  dared  hope. 

But  on  reaching  home,  Richard  found  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Presbey  pinned  to  the  old-fashioned  hatstand,  say- 
ing that  owing  to  the  sudden  illness  of  her  only  sister's 
child,  she  was  forced  to  remain  away  for  the  night. 
She  had  instructed  Nora  to  wait  up  until  nine  in  case 
he  or  Miss  Garside  wanted  something  to  eat.  If  Nora 
was  asleep  when  he  got  in,  he  was  to  go  to  the  icebox 
and  help  himself.  Then  followed  minute  instructions 
as  to  the  location  of  the  cold  chicken,  the  egg  salad  in 
cups,  the  coffee  jelly  with  whipped  cream  and  the  iced 
tea  in  a  milk  bottle. 

The  sheet  of  note  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor  back 
of  him  as  he  sprang  up  the  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time, 
in  his  journey  to  the  top  floor. 

"Nora,"  he  cried,  "Nora!"  and  began  pounding  upon 
;the  Amazon's  door.  But  the  Amazon  was  emitting 
Brobdinagian  snores  which  proclaimed  her  safe  from 
intrusion,  and  Dick  called  and  knocked  in  vain.  The 
snores  continued  their  placid  tenor  at  even  intervals. 

Sick  at  heart  and  a  little  frightened,  Dick  went  heav- 
ily downstairs,  and  told  Betty  what  they  "were  up 
against." 

"Well,"  said  Betty  calmly,  "there's  nothing  to  be 
done.  You'll  have  to  help  me  to  my  room,  and  I'll 
make  a  fresh  application  of  the  arnica  he  gave  us  every 
time  I  wake.  To-morrow  Mrs.  Presbey  will  help  me 
out  with  the  hot-water  compresses." 


94  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Dick  said  nothing.  He  was  diplomatic  enough  to 
help  Betty  upstairs  first,  and  then  began  to  argue. 

"You  know  what  the  old  chap  said,  Betty,"  he  re- 
minded her.  "You  don't  want  to  be  laid  up  for  weeks, 
and  risk  having  an  inflammation  of  some  sort,  do  you?" 

"I  guess  I  will  have  to." 

"No,  you  won't.  You  are  going  to  let  me  take  care 
of  you  this  night." 

"Impossible." 

"No,  dear,  it's  not  impossible.  You  are  going  to  un- 
dress and  get  to  bed,  and  after  you  are  in  bed,  I'm  com- 
ing back  to  your  room  to  apply  the  hot-water  com- 
presses." 

"No,  Dicky,  you  are  not." 

"Betty,  why  not?" 

"It  would  be  flying  in  the  face  of  convention  and 
decency." 

"Convention,  yes, — decency,  no." 

"Dicky,  don't  tease  me." 

"Betty,  don't  you  trust  me?" 

He  tried  to  catch  her  eye,  but  she  averted  her  head 
and  began  blowing  into  the  fingers  of  her  gloves  as  she 
had  a  habit  of  doing  to  keep  them  from  wrinkling. 

"Betty,  are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

No  answer. 

"Betty,  answer  me." 

Still  she  did  not  reply. 

"Betty,  do  you  trust  the  man  you  have  promised  to 
marry  so  little?  You  trust  me  enough  to  place  your 
entire  life  in  my  keeping,  but  you  do  not  trust  me 
enough  to  allow  me  to  remain  in  your  room  for  one 
night  to  play  nurse?" 

Still  she  maintained  her  singular  silence,  and  stung 
by  her  mute  opposition  more  than  by  openly  avowed 
distrust,  he  continued  excitedly: 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  95 

"Is  it  because  of  what  occurred  this  afternoon?" 

She  looked  up  at  last,  and  in  the  blind  look  of  fright 
in  her  eyes  he  read  his  answer.  Without  a  word  he 
rose,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Dicky,  where  are  you  going?" 

"To  ring  up  the  New  York  Hospital  and  see  if  they 
can  send  us  a  nurse  for  the  night." 

"But  it's  after  eleven,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  I  doubt  whether  we  can  get  someone  from 
there  to-night.  If  not,  I  am  going  out  to  a  nurse's  home 
in  Fourteenth  Street,  where  I  went  last  year  for  Mrs. 
Presbey.  I  cannot  telephone,  because  I  don't  know  the 
exact  address.  But  I  can  locate  it  easily  by  going  there." 

"Dicky,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me  alone  in  the 
house  ?" 

"Apparently  you'll  feel  safer  alone  than  with  me 
near  you." 

"Dick,  don't  go, — please  don't  go.  I'm  afraid  to  be 
left  alone,"  she  entreated. 

He  had  spoken  without  looking  at  her.  Now  he 
turned  and  faced  her.  He  was  very  white,  and  his 
anger  and  resentment  now  overflowed  in  such  a  cata- 
ract of  words  that  coherency  of  speech,  even  clarity  of 
enunciation  were  precluded. 

"What  an  unutterable  brute  you  must  think  me !  What 
under  the  sun  do  you  think  me  capable  of?  What  have 
I  done  that  you  should  think  so  ill  of  me?  Because  I 
kissed  you  with  a  little  more  ardor  than  usual  this  after- 
noon, you  jump  at  the  conclusion  that  I'm  not  to  be 
trusted, — that  I'm  some  sort  of  an  unmentionable  cur — 
a  cur,  yes,  that's  what  you  evidently  think  me." 

"Dicky,  oh,  Dicky,  please  don't  go  on  like  that." 

"As  if  any  halfways  decent-minded  man  would  think 
of  anything  but  alleviating  the  suffering  of  the  woman 
he  loved  when  she  is  in  pain." 


96  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Dicky,  please " 

"You  cannot  imagine  I  would  have  the  poor  taste  to 
make  love  to  you  while  I  am  in  your  room  caring  for 
your  ankle.  And  even  if  there  was  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  your  ankle,  if  you  were  not  ill,  don't  you  sup- 
pose you  would  be  safe  with  me  anywhere,  at  any  time, 
until — I  mean  always " 

He  broke  off,  and  she  said  conciliatorily,  in  her  soft- 
est, most  ingratiating  way : 

"Yes,  Dicky,  of  course,  of  course.  It's  very  sweet  of 
you  to  offer  to  sit  up  with  me,  and  if  you  are  sure  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you." 

He  came  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  looked 
searchingly  into  her  eyes.  A  look  of  utter  wretched- 
ness had  succeeded  the  blind  look  of  fright. 

"Please  don't  scold  me  any  more,"  she  said  in  a  pit- 
eous voice,  "and  don't  leave  me  just  now.  I  feel — I 
really  feel  ill." 

She  began  to  cry  softly,  and  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

"I'm  cold,"  she  sobbed,  "I  am  so  dreadfully  cold." 
She  began  to  tremble  violently  with  a  nervous  chill.  He 
brought  her  jacket  to  her,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Please  get  me  my  eiderdown  flannel,  instead." 

He  went  to  the  closet  in  which  she  kept  her  clothes, 
which  was  as  large  as  a  small  room,  and  walked  into  it. 
Her  gowns  and  waists,  neatly  turned  inside  out,  fra- 
grant with  the  perfume  of  her  own  sweet,  virginal 
body,  faced  him  in  unimagined,  immaculate  intimacy. 
A  sense  of  bewilderment  passed  over  him,  that  was  im- 
mediately swept  away  by  a  sense  of  ownership,  of  pos- 
session. His  imagination  played  him  the  trick  of  pre- 
senting to  him  the  episode  in  perspective,  as  if  he  had 
stood  in  that  sanctuary  dozens  of  times  before. 

"It's  quite  near  the  door,"  said  Betty's  voice  from 
between  chattering  teeth. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  97 

He  found  it,  thrilling  at  touch  of  the  garment,  car- 
ried it  across  the  room,  and  wrapped  it  about  her.  But 
even  the  warm  wrapper  lacked  potency  to  check  those 
convulsive  chills. 

"Dicky,"  she  whispered,  "put  your  arms  around  me." 

Obediently  he  encircled  her  with  his  strong  arms, 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  warmth  of  his  body  against 
which  she  lay  limp  and  flaccid  like  a  broken  flower, 
quieted  her. 

"Dicky,"  she  whispered,  "I  don't  deserve  your  being 
so  sweet  to  me,"  and  of  her  own  accord  she  offered  him 
her  lips,  the  lips  which  he  had  longed  to  kiss  so  often 
and  so  passionately,  and  which,  until  that  moment,  she 
had  invariably  refused  him.  Remembering  the  terror 
with  which  he  had  inspired  her  that  afternoon  by  his 
unwonted  warmth,  he  kissed  her  mouth  very  deli- 
cately, very  lightly,  feeling,  too,  that  more  prolonged 
kisses  would  be  unfair  to  himself,  would  make  the 
night's  adventure  harder  for  himself  than  was  neces- 
sary. 

Mercilessly  he  thrust  into  the  background  the  emo- 
tions which  were  arising  in  him. 

"And  now,  Bossy  Betty,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  to 
be  bossed.  You  are  to  be  in  bed  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Then  I  am  coming  back  with  the  gas  cooker  which  I 
will  abstract  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  little  copper  tea- 
kettle of  which  I  will  deplete  the  parlor.  Then  pre- 
pare to  be  parboiled  and  tortured  with  water  heated 
beyond  boiling  point,  as  if  you  were  a  victim  of  the 
Inquisition." 

"Dicky — I  couldn't.  I  will  just  lie  down  on  the  Daven- 
port, without  undressing,  you  know?" 

"Dearest,  I  thought  we  had  settled  that?  You  are 
worn  out.  You  must  get  to  bed.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
be  ill  unless  you  get  a  sound  night's  rest." 


98  THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Very  well,  Dicky."  She  spoke  like  a  small  child 
that  has  been  out-reasoned  and  out-argued. 

"Good-night,  my  dear  girl.  When  I  get  back  here, 
remember,  I  will  not  be  your  dear  Dicky.  You  are  to 
address  me  as  'Nurse.'  I  will  be  highly  professional, 
and  expect  to  be  treated  with  the  respect  and  submission 
due  my  authoritative  position."  He  bustled  about  in 
imitation  of  the  manner  espoused  by  trained  nurses. 

In  spite  of  Richard's  heroic  efforts  to  place  the  entire 
episode  on  a  humorous  footing,  it  was  a  very  white  and 
frightened  looking  Betty  that  sat  up  in  bed  as  he  came 
back  into  the  room.  The  sight  of  the  sweet  face  of  the 
girl  he  loved,  with  her  black  curls  falling  about  her 
shoulders  like  a  fountain  of  liquid  ebony,  her  black  eyes 
looking  out  of  the  white  face  like  twin  mountain  lakes 
harassed  by  an  impending  storm,  sent  the  forked  light- 
ning through  him.  But  he  was  in  full  control  of  him- 
self. Whatever  suffering  the  unique  and  embarrassing 
situation  in  which  they  found  themselves  might  entail 
upon  himself,  he  was  determined  that  for  Betty  the 
night's  adventure  should  present  no  disagreeable  fea- 
tures in  retrospection. 

Therefore,  paying  no  heed  to  Betty's  very  apparent 
nervousness,  he  tied  a  large  bath  towel  about  his  lean 
person,  as  if  it  were  a  nurse's  apron,  and  in  a  falsetto 
voice  extolled  the  medicinal  virtues  of  hot  water,  while 
he  busied  himself  with  the  gas  cooker  and  the  tea- 
kettle. He  was  not  very  successful  in  creating  a  sem- 
blance of  jollity.  There  are  many  brands  of  humor, 
and  the  rollicking,  minstrel-show,  freak  brand  was  not 
for  Dicky  to  essay.  But  his  intentions  were  good,  and 
his  antics  helped  fill  up  awkward  pauses. 

When  at  last  the  crucial  moment  arrived  and  Dicky 
stood  before  Betty's  bed,  hot,  dripping  compress  in 
hand,  she  extended  her  foot  quite  naturally.  In  spite 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART  99 

of  the  red,  swollen  ankle,  it  was  such  a  white,  beauti- 
fully sculptured  foot,  with  toes  and  instep  as  exquis- 
itely modelled  as  any  new-born  infant's,  that  Dicky 
forgot  the  part  he  was  playing,  and  exclaimed : 

"What  a  perfect  little  Trilby  it  is,  Betty." 

He  slapped  the  hot  compress  over  the  ankle.  She 
shivered  a  little. 

"Is  it  too  hot?" 

"No,  it  feels  good,  now  it  is  on." 

"And  now,  Betty,"  he  had  pulled  the  covers  over  her 
foot  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her,  "you  had  better 
go  asleep — I'll  watch  the  kettle  boil  and  the  clock  wag 
its  tail,  and  when  twenty  minutes  are  up,  I'll  contrive 
to  apply  a  new  compress  without  waking  you.  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night,  Dicky." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  beside  the  drop 
light,  about  which  he  had  built  a  semi-circular  barricade 
to  shield  Betty's  eyes  from  the  light.  He  had  brought 
the  score  of  an  opera  with  him  to  study  while  he  kept 
his  vigil,  but  he  found  that  he  had  brought  with  him 
Tristan  and  Isolde  instead  of  Lohengrin. 

He  opened  the  book  at  haphazard  and  chanced  upon 
the  Liebestod.  He  was  familiar  with  the  opera,  and 
the  perusal  of  the  score  invoked  in  him  a  poignant  recol- 
lection of  the  music.  As  his  eye  traversed  the  page,  the 
cold  type  of  the  score  leaped  into  life,  setting  on  fire 
his  musician's  imagination.  He  experienced  what  may 
be  called  an  aural  vision.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  synco- 
pated passionate  music,  each  bar  of  which  was  a  heart- 
beat, each  phrase  a  pulsing  of  the  senses.  One  by  one  the 
voices  of  the  orchestra  became  apparent  to  him.  The  mad 
onslaught  of  the  violins — the  circling  music  of  the  wood 
instrument,  and  above  the  harmonious  roar  of  the  or- 
chestra there  rose  triumphant  the  limpid  and  strong 


100         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

voice  of  the  woman,  and  by  fantastic  trick  of  fancy, 
amounting  almost  to  a  hallucination,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  woman  who  was  singing  the  wonderful  music 
thus  passionately,  the  woman  whose  voice  was  a  musical 
apotheosis  of  sex  was  Betty — white-faced,  black-haired 
Betty,  in  whose  voice  there  was  not  the  remotest  sug- 
gestion of  sex ! 

He  tried  to  shake  off  the  singular  fantasy.  He  closed 
the  book  and  put  it  away.  But  the  music  continued  to 
ring  in  his  ears — continued  to  disturb  him,  to  rouse  him, 
to  titillate  through  him. 

Then  a  keen  sense  of  the  actual  situation  came  to 
him.  The  woman  he  loved  lay  not  two  yards  away 
from  him;  it  was  midnight;  they  were  alone  in  the 
house,  or  as  good  as  alone.  He  shuddered  and  trem- 
bled, as  with  ague.  This  would  never  do.  As  soon  as 
Betty  was  asleep,  he  would  get  the  score  of  Handel's 
"Messiah"  or  Verdi's  "Requiem  Mass"  to  help  him 
keep  his  heart  clean  of  unworthy  thoughts  through  this 
night  at  least. 

"Dicky." 

"Betty?" 

"Dicky,  darling,  I  am  a  selfish  pig.  I  never  once 
thought  of  your  hands.  They're  so  sensitive  to  ex- 
tremes of  temperature.  The  hot  water  is  sure  to  hurt 
them." 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  little  girl.  A  little  cold 
cream  will  fix  'em  up  all  right.  Just  go  to  sleep." 

His  temples  throbbed,  his  blood  burned  in  his  veins 
like  a  fever.  He  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  laid  them 
upon  the  cold  marble  of  the  mantelpiece;  but  the  marble 
grew  warm  before  his  hands  became  cool. 

"Dicky,  dear!" 

"Yes,  Betty?" 

"Dicky,  dear,  I've  been  horrid  to  you.  I  want  to 
apologize." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         101 

"That's  all  right,  Betty.  No  cause  for  an  apology, 
I'm  sure." 

"You  are  sure  you're  not  angry  with  me?" 

"Quite  sure." 

He  placed  his  hands,  cool  at  last,  against  his  burn- 
ing temples.  He  could  feel  the  blood  humming  in  his 
pulses  with  an  indefatigable  persistence  that  was  com- 
municating dizziness  to  his  brain. 

"Dicky,  dear!" 

"Yes,  Betty?" 

"Dicky,  dear — if  you're  not  angry  with  me,  why  didn't 
you  kiss  me  'Good-night'?  It  never  happened  before, 
you  know." 

"Chance,  Betty." 

If  she  had  been  a  seasoned  coquette  she  could  not 
have  troubled  him  more  cruelly.  Great  waves  of  an 
intangible  something,  some  wild-running  sort  of  energy 
seemed  to  traverse  his  brain. 

"Dicky,  dear,  won't  you  kiss  me  'Good-night'  now? 
I  think  I  will  be  able  to  sleep  if  I'm  sure  you're  not  a 
wee  bit  provoked." 

The  room  seemed  to  gyrate  before  him.  He  made  a 
Herculean  effort  to  steady  his  nerves,  rose  and  walked 
across  the  room.  The  words  rose  to  his  lips,  "Betty, 
I  dare  not  kiss  you,  now";  but  now  that  she  had  ac- 
cepted as  quite  in  place  the  unusual  situation  and  was 
trusting  him  so  sublimely,  the  thought  of  admitting  his 
lack  of  self-control  offended  him.  He  rose  to  the  height 
of  the  heroism  required  of  him.  He  stooped  and  kissed 
her. 

To  cut  off  further  conversation  and  temptation,  he 
continued : 

"Betty,  I  will  play  you  Schumann's  'Schlummerlied' 
I  will  play  it  so  softly  that  it  will  be  your  lullaby." 

He  went  to  the  piano,  and  began  playing.  "Velvet 
Fingers,"  the  epithet  bestowed  upon  Chopin  by  George 


102         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Sand,  was  the  term  Betty  had  applied  to  Richard,  un- 
conscious of  the  illustrious  use  made  of  the  designation 
a  century  ago  until  he  told  her  of  it.  To-night  Richard 
played  with  velvet  fingers,  indeed.  When  he  had  finished 
the  lied,  he  found,  on  looking  up,  that  Betty  had  fallen 
asleep. 

There  ensued  a  half  hour  of  exquisite  torture.  Rich- 
ard did  not  wish  to  look  at  Betty  asleep,  and  yet  some 
invisible  chain  seemed  to  drag  him  toward  her.  Her 
lips  had  parted  lightly;  she  was  smiling;  one  white  arm 
lay  above  her  head,  half  buried  in  the  black  billows  of 
her  hair ;  the  other  arm  lay  across  her  breast,  accentuat- 
ing the  outlines  of  the  glorious  young  bosom. 

With  the  last  bit  of  sanity  that  remained,  Richard 
recrossed  the  room,  and  sat  down  at  the  open  window. 
His  torment  increased,  towered,  became  Gargantuan. 
Phials  of  hostile  poisons  seemed  to  have  entered  his 
veins,  to  be  struggling  with  the  ferocity  of  famished 
beasts  of  prey  maddened  by  sight  of  blood.  Sinister 
and  black  thoughts  assailed  him,  crowded  about  him, 
enveloped  him;  thoughts  so  infamous  and  abysmal  that 
even  in  that  hour  of  madness,  when  every  manly  fiber 
seemed  relaxed  and  powerless  to  dam  the  tide  of  passion, 
he  shuddered  to  think  that  such  iniquitous  thoughts 
could  inhabit  in  him,  shuddered  as  he  would  have  shud- 
dered on  finding  upon  his  body  a  leprous  spot. 

All  his  life,  in  a  way,  he  had  ignored  sex.  He  had 
supposed  that  when  love  came  it  would  come  decor- 
ously, placidly,  sweetly.  He  had  taken  the  romantic,  the 
sentimental  view  of  love.  He  had  despised  those  who 
regarded  it  in  any  other  light.  He  had  supposed  that 
he  would  always  be  the  master  of  love,  that  he  would 
welcome  it  into  his  life  only  as  a  new  chord  on  which  to 
play  on  a  moonlight  night.  Yes,  decidedly,  he  had  con- 
sidered love  in  its  sentimental  aspect  only,  and  having 


"ONLY  TO  KISS  HER!  ONLY  TO  KISS  HER!"  HE  WHISPERED  TENSELY.         p.  103 


THE    VOICE   OF   THE   HEART         103 

kept  his  imagination  clear  and  his  heart  pure  it  seemed 
some  devilishly  unmerited,  unjust  retribution  of  fate  to 
fling  into  his  veins  these  myriad  flaming  cauldrons  that 
corroded  and  vitiated  and  burned.  He  no  longer  won- 
dered that  men,  when  love  usurped  the  reins,  became 
capable  of  every  infamy,  of  every  excess.  He  himself 
felt  capable  of  he  knew  not  what.  "Only  to  kiss  her, 
only  to  kiss  her,"  he  whispered  tensely.  He  understood 
now  why  experienced  men  and  women  opposed  the 
living  under  one  roof  of  engaged  couples.  Now, 
too,  he  understood  Mrs.  Presbey's  objection  to  his 
bringing  Betty  to  the  house.  But  why,  in  heaven's  name, 
did  they  shift  the  burden  of  the  objection  upon  the 
shoulders  of  convention?  Why  cloak  and  disguise  and 
mask  the  truth?  Why  not  say  plainly  that  propinquity 
breeds  the  fever  of  temptation,  the  miasma  of  seductive 
thoughts,  as  nothing  else  can  do?  Was  every  conven- 
tion hedging  about  the  young  grounded  in  some  in- 
violable law  of  nature? 

He  had  longed  for  Europe,  not  merely  for  the  sake 
of  a  superior  instructor,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  stim- 
ulus which  Europe  was  supposed  to  supply.  Yet  what 
stimulus  could  Europe  offer  comparable  to  this?  And 
he,  fool  of  fools,  green,  silly  untried  fool  that  he  had 
been,  had  thought  love  a  soft,  inconsequential  thing,  a 
little  tiny  thing  to  harness  down  in  a  wreath  of  forget- 
me-nots  and  roses !  Love — the  sex-element — he  saw  it 
plainly  now,  was  the  one  great  stationary  fact  in  life, 
the  one  constant,  unchangeable  milestone,  the  motive 
power,  the  fulcrum,  the  pivot,  the  hub. 

How  very  plain  this  unreasoning,  blind,  driving  force, 
that  had  been  unleashed  within  him,  was  making  many 
things?  The  flames  in  his  blood  had  set  fire  to  his 
imagination.  Protean,  bizarre  visions  flashed  past  his 
spirit  eye  with  lightning  rapidity.  In  his  early  adoles- 


104         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

cence,  when  the  mystery  of  sound  had  first  embraced 
him  with  arms  of  enchantment,  the  Catholic  Church,  as 
it  existed  in  the  Middle  Ages,  with  lure  of  ritual  and 
glamour  of  mysticism,  had  thrown  its  spell  upon  him. 
He  had  spent  many  a  vapory  hour  on  golden  summer 
days  in  reading  of  the  customs  and  manners  of  bygone 
days.  He  had  conjured  visions  of  monastery  gardens, 
made  dim  and  cool  as  the  monastery  itself  by  the  leafy 
panoply  of  century-old  hemlocks  and  oaks  and  beech, 
where  sober-faced  monks,  lean  and  gaunt  and  gray,  had 
taken  somber  half-hours  of  recreation  at  twilight.  They 
had  led  hard,  laborious,  lack-luster  lives.  Their  days 
had  been  days  of  toil  and  fasting,  and  their  rest  at 
night  had  been  broken  by  voluntary  vigils  and  compul- 
sory prayers.  And  not  satisfied  with  the  truceless  gloom 
shed  over  their  lives  by  incessant  toil  and  deliberate 
hardships,  they  aggravated  the  somberness  of  their  lives 
by  self-inflicted  tortures.  They  did  not  consider  that 
the  omnipresent  flesh  was  sufficiently  mortified  by  con- 
stant denial.  They  voluntarily  superimposed  positive 
pain  upon  negative  discomfort,  believing  that  they 
thereby  pleased  God,  and  to  compass  divine  benediction 
they  flagellated  themselves  with  cruel  whips  which 
lacerated  and  ate  into  their  flesh. 

Richard  had  never  been  able  to  comprehend  these 
flagellations.  It  seemed  crude  and  raw  and  brutal  to 
him  that  men  of  cultured  minds,  of  spotless  lives,  of 
active  charity  should  inflict  upon  themselves  monstrous 
tortures.  Now,  in  a  flash  of  insight,  he  understood  that 
although  the  world  judges  men  by  their  actions,  men 
of  probity  judge  themselves  by  their  hidden  thoughts 
and  unexpressed  desires.  He  could  now  conceive  how, 
filled  with  shame  and  humiliation  because  of  vagrant 
yearnings  of  the  flesh,  they  had  embraced  physical  tor- 
ture as  a  welcome  means  of  cleansing  themselves  from 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         105 

the  pollution  of  poisonous  thoughts.  Or,  perhaps,  they 
had  lashed  themselves  from  a  purely  human  desire  to 
escape  the  greater  pain,  knowing  that  no  external  agony 
could  equal  the  inward  torment. 

Now  also  he  could  understand  why  the  Roman  Church 
exacts  celibacy  of  its  priesthood.  In  demanding  that,  it 
demands  the  supreme  sacrifice.  Poverty,  labor,  vigils — 
what  are  these  as  compared  to  the  suppression  of  the 
ultimate  craving  of  the  flesh,  the  supreme  intoxication, 
the  final,  incessant,  crying  need  of  humanity? 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  suffering,  Richard  felt  that  for 
no  consideration  would  he  have  parted  with  it  or  with 
the  new  knowledge,  the  new  insight  into  life  which  the 
awakening  of  the  sex  element  had  bestowed  upon  him. 
"Ye  have  eyes  and  ye  see  not;  ye  have  ears  and  ye  hear 
not;"  That  had  been  the  case  with  him.  That  feeling 
was  the  "Open  Sesame"  to  the  mystery  underlying  all 
life.  Now  the  veil  that  had  shrouded  life  from  him  was 
withdrawn.  He  told  himself  proudly  that  now  there 
was  nothing  he  could  not  fathom  or  divine.  A  sixth 
sense  seemed  to  have  been  bestowed  upon  him.  He  lik- 
ened himself  to  a  colorblind  man,  who  having  sensed  all 
the  manifold  splendor  and  majesty  of  field  and  coppice 
and  stream  as  a  gray  etching,  through  some  necromancy 
of  science  receives  the  gift  of  color  perception,  and  for 
the  first  time  apprehends  the  subtle,  poignant  joyousness 
which  color  bestows  upon  the  landscape. 

He  was  intensely  proud  of  the  fire  through  which  he 
had  passed,  and  of  having  come  off  so  cleanly.  He 
became  calmer.  He  was  able  to  look  at  Betty  now  with- 
out relapsing  into  the  condition  of  an  unreasoning  brute. 
He  reflected  that  Betty  was  wholly  untouched  by  a 
change  such  as  had  occurred  in  him.  It  was  the  same 
Betty  who,  thinking  no  evil,  had  asked  him  to  kiss  her 
while  in  bed  before  falling  asleep,  and  who  had  kissed 


106         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

him  in  the  rustic  summer-house  at  Penascapet  at  sun- 
rise one  morning.  There  had  been  no  growth,  no  devel- 
opment. This  perplexed  him.  He  did  not  wish  her  less 
pure,  but  more  mature.  He  remembered  how  she  shrank 
away  from  him  whenever  his  hands  became  a  trifle  bold 
in  their  wooing,  how  she  froze  whenever  his  kisses  were 
prolonged  beyond  the  point  which  she  thought  seemly. 

He  felt  that  in  justice  to  both  himself  and  her,  he 
must  make  some  effort  to  awaken  her,  but  his  horror 
of  offending  her  had  so  far  made  abortive  every  attempt 
of  his  in  this  direction.  His  great  hope  was  that  after 
marriage  her  awakening  would  come  about  by  itself. 
Whereas  his  former  hopes  had  centered  in  a  career, 
they  now  centered  in  the  thought  of  making  Betty  his 
wife.  His  career  would  have  to  look  out  for  itself. 

The  clock  struck  one.  He  started  from  his  revery.  It 
was  time  for  a  new  compress. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Mrs.  Presbey  did  not  return  the  next  day,  and  Betty 
was  left  with  Nora  the  Amazon  to  attend  to  her.  Nora's 
heart  was  kind,  but  that  circumstance  did  not  make  her 
hands  less  clumsy,  and  Betty  writhed  in  pain  more  than 
once  when  the  boiling  compress  was  slapped  roughly 
upon  the  sore  ankle. 

However,  Betty's  optimism  came  well  to  the  fore  as 
always.  Her  suffering  was  abundantly  compensated  for 
by  the  testing  of  her  Dicky.  True,  the  accident  had  been 
due  to  very  singular  behavior  on  his  part,  to  which  she 
was  unable  to  assign  any  explanation  except  such  a  one 
as  she  most  earnestly  did  not  wish  to  consider.  The 
subsequent  happenings  of  the  night  had  made  it  sat- 
isfactorily clear  to  her  that  her  Dicky  in  no  way  shared 
the  strange  appetites  of  men.  Dicky  was  a  law  unto 
himself.  Nature  had  cast  him  into  the  mold  of  a 
man,  but  had  refrained  from  injecting  the  lower  man 
nature  into  that  mold.  Dicky  was  above  certain  mun- 
dane emotions.  Dicky  had  gloriously  vindicated  himself. 

Dicky  came  home  a  little  earlier  than  usual.  He  barely 
touched  the  diced  chicken  on  toast  which  Nora  had  pre- 
pared in  imitation  of  Mrs.  Presbey's  very  delicious  dish 
of  the  same  name,  and  when  he  ran  up  to  Betty's  room, 
he  found  her  tasting  the  messy-looking  stuff  very  gin- 
gerly. 

"Don't  eat  that  stuff,  Betty,"  he  implored;  "Nora 
must  have  seasoned  it  with  sawdust  and  colored  it  with 

107 


108         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

wash-blue.  I  am  going  to  order  a  dinner  to  be  sent 
from  the  St.  Denis  or  Mouquin's." 

"Oh,  no,  don't  do  that,"  said  Betty.  "It  would  hurt 
Nora's  feelings  so  horribly,  you  know." 

"Do  you  think  Nora's  sensibilities  can  be  hurt?" 

"Why  not?"  Betty  retorted  sturdily.  "She  is  a  human 
being  like  you  and  me." 

Dicky  laughed. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  object  strenuously  to 
your  comparing  either  yourself  or  me  to  our  kitchen 
Amazon.  Come,  let's  think  up  a  menu." 

"Dicky,"  said  Betty  with  sweet  seriousness,  "do  you 
realize  what  an  effort  it  must  have  been  for  Nora  to  get 
up  this  dinner  for  us  all  by  herself?  She  isn't  a  cook, 
and  she  tried  very  hard  to  prepare  a  dinner  just  like 
Mrs.  Presbey's  lovely  Monday  night  dinners  for  us." 

"Surely,  you  don't  call  that  fricasseed  dog's  meat  a 
dinner,  do  you  ?" 

"I  certainly  do,  and  I  intend  to  eat  it.  I  wouldn't 
hurt  Nora's  feelings  for  worlds." 

"And  this — Land  of  Goshen — what  have  we  here? 
As  I  live  by  bread — a  bouquet  of  soup  celery  and  the 
green  ends  of  carrots  and — yes,  it's  parsley,  if  I  may 
believe  my  eyes." 

"You  shan't  laugh  at  it,  Dicky.  She  meant  it  so 
kindly.  She  said,  'A  little  green  do  make  the  tray  look 
finer,  Miss.'  You  are  positively  horrid,  Dicky.  I  prize 
Nora's  bouquet  of  parsley  and  soup  celery  as  much  as 
the  roses  you  sent  me.  Yes,  I  do." 

"Oh,  Betty!" 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Richard.  Not  quite  as 
much,  my  foolish,  darling  Dicky.  How  could  I  ?  There, 
don't  frown.  Of  course  I'd  love  a  weed  you  brought 
me  better  than  diamonds  and  sapphires  tendered  by  any- 
one else.  Now,  are  you  content?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         109 

"You  sentimental  little  darling " 

"It  was  sweet  of  you  to  send  the  roses,  Dicky.  Thank 
you." 

"Well,  keep  Nora's  bouquet,  Betty.  Shall  I  press  it 
for  you?  Between  Tennyson's  'Lotus-Eaters'  or  Shel- 
ley's 'Sky-Lark'?  Which?" 

"Dicky,  you  have  a  corrupt  mind.  I  never  suspected 
it  before.  No,  you  must  not  kiss  me  now.  I  am  going 
to  eat  this  what-do-you-call-it?" 

"Ragout  de  chien." 

"Dicky,  how  absolutely  abominable  you  can  be.  I 
shall  eat  it.  Did  you  eat  yours  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't  feel  called  upon  to  embrace  martyrdom 
just  yet." 

Betty's  fork  was  poised  in  the  air  and  was  about  to 
descend  upon  the  plate,  when  Dicky,  with  a  quick  ges- 
ture, drew  away  the  plate.  Spreading  a  newspaper,  he 
prodded  the  toast  with  its  layer  of  chicken  from  the 
plate  upon  the  paper  with  a  knife,  and  then  folded  up 
the  paper. 

"Now  Nora's  feelings  won't  be  hurt,"  he  said.  "I'll 
go  for  a  walk  later  on  and  drop  it  into  an  ash  barrel 
where  some  marauding  dog  will  find  it  and  have  a  Lu- 
cullian repast.  Sweets  to  the  sweet,  and  dogs  to  the 
dog." 

"Dicky,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  very  little  while.  First  of  all.  What 
am  I  to  order?  Oyster  cocktail?" 

"Oyster  cocktail?  You  don't  mean  to  order  a  course 
dinner  ?" 

"I  sure  do.  I  have  programs,  beg  pardon,  bills  of 
fare,  from  two  restaurants  in  my  pocket.  Oyster  cock- 
tail? Or  crab  cocktail?" 

"Dicky — the  Europe  Fund.  .  .  ." 

"Bother  the  Europe  Fund.    Oyster  cocktails  for  two. 


110         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

How  about  ochre  consomme,  or  would  you  prefer  onion 
soup?" 

"Onion  soup?    Horrors!" 

"Ochre  consomme,  then  Escargons  or  chicken  liver 
saute?" 

"Dicky,  dear,  how  can  I  eat  all  that  when  I've  sat 
still  on  the  sofa  all  day." 

"People  who  sit  still  all  day  must  eat,  nevertheless. 
Escargons  ?" 

"Not  for  me." 

"Chicken  liver  saute,  then.  And  a  nice,  tender,  juicy 
tenderloin  steak  will  suit  us  both,  with  baked  artichokes 
and  fried  egg  plant.  What  desert  ?  Tortoni  or  chocolate 
Charlotte  Russe  or  French  cream?  Cream  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes.  There,  I'll  telephone  the  order,  and  then 
I'll  tell  you  the  great  news." 

Within  five  minutes  he  had  telephoned  and  was  back 
in  the  room.  He  drew  up  a  chair  alongside  of  the 
Davenport,  on  which  Betty  was  lying,  and  settled  him- 
self close  beside  her  as  for  a  long  talk. 

"Now,  Betty,"  he  said  tenderly,  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  "I  have  great  news  for  you.  Mr.  Telfer  was  asked 
to  recommend  a  pianist  to  illustrate  the  music  of  various 
composers  at  the  Weekly  Lectures  given  by  the  Musical 
Progress  League,  and  he  recommended  me.  That  means 
fifteen  dollars  extra  a  week  right  into  June,  and  that 
in  turn  means,  sweetheart,  that  we  can  get  married." 

He  had  expected  her  to  exclaim  joyously  and  perhaps 
to  demur  perfunctorily.  But  he  had  expected  to  have 
his  way  in  the  end.  However,  although  her  face  had 
brightened  and  her  black  eyes  had  lightened  as  they  had 
a  way  of  doing  when  things  went  well  with  him,  a 
look  of  determined,  flinty  opposition  such  as  he  had 
never  seen  in  her  usually  passive  face  succeeded  the 
other  look  when  he  spoke  of  marriage. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         111 

''We  mustn't  think  of  getting  married  just  yet." 

"Why  not?" 

"In  the  first  place,  Dicky,  dear,  there  is  your  future 
to  be  considered." 

"I  must  decide  about  that." 

"Not  if  you  decide  wrong." 

"Betty,  listen  to  me.  If  I  had  the  means  to  devote 
myself  to  music  without  foregoing  you,  I  would  do  so. 
As  it  is — I  must  abandon  my  career.  I  cannot  forego 
you.  I  want  to  get  married,  Betty." 

"How  unreasonable  you  are,  Dicky.  We're  as  good  as 
married." 

"Not  quite." 

"We  are  always  together,  Dicky,  we  live  in  the  same 
house,  we  eat  our  meals  together,  we  work  in  the  same 
business.  We  could  not  be  together  more  constantly 
than  we  are." 

"We  are  not  always  together,  Betty.  Think,  dear,  how 
sweet  it  would  be  never  to  part  for  the  night — you  asleep 
in  my  arms." 

She  drew  back,  alarmed  by  the  look  in  his  eyes.  It 
was  the  same  look  that  had  made  her  run  from  him  on 
Sunday.  The  horrible  suspicion  flashed  across  her  mind 
that  after  all  there  might  be  more  than  an  external  re- 
semblance between  her  Dicky  and  other  men.  Some  of 
the  cruelly  brutal  things  her  mother  had  said  to  her 
about  men  came  rushing  back.  "All  men  are  alike. 
When  they  marry  it  is  for  one  thing  only."  She  flushed. 
She  looked  dazed,  helpless,  she  thrust  the  thought  away 
from  her.  It  libelled  her  Dicky.  He  had  never  really 
given  her  cause  to  suspect  him  of  such  depravity,  and 
with  a  little  shiver  of  joy  she  remembered  how  tenderly 
he  had  attended  to  her  through  the  night.  Passion,  de- 
sire, other  men  might  make  those  lower  instincts  their 
goal,  but  her  Dicky  was  actuated  by  other  motives. 


112 


Surely,  he  had  meant  nothing  beyond  the  actual  meaning 
conveyed  by  his  words. 

"We  are  always  together,  Dicky,"  she  repeated  help- 
lessly. "Why  should  we  marry?  I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  allow  me  to  go  on  supporting  myself,  and  I 
would  hang  about  your  neck  like  a  millstone." 

"Betty,  dear,  you  are  inventing  obstacles." 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  lying  among  the  sofa 
pillows,  and  as  she  lay  there  under  the  uncertain  gas 
light,  the  sense  of  her  fragile  beauty  came  rushing  over 
him  like  the  waters  of  an  eddy.  His  suppressed 'craving 
for  her,  the  unspeakable  torment  through  which  he  had 
passed  only  the  night  before  shook  him  to  the  very 
marrow.  Caution,  prudence,  reserve,  the  necessity  of  ob- 
serving the  utmost  delicacy  in  dealing  with  her  went 
down  in  that  whirlpool  of  desire  like  so  many  straws. 

"Betty,  Betty,"  he  begged.  "Betty,  Betty,  let  me  kiss 
your  lips;  let  me  kiss  you,  only  once,  as  I  want  to  kiss 
you!" 

His  arms,  clasped  her  waist.  She  unclasped  them 
forcibly.  His  mouth  approached  hers. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried  in  terror.     "No,  Richard,  no." 

"You  offered  me  your  mouth  to  kiss  last  night,"  he 
said,  his  voice  hoarse  with  passion. 

"You  were  different  then." 

"I  am  always  the  same." 

"No,  no,  you  were  different." 

"I  cloaked  my  feelings.  I  was  the  same.  My  feelings 
for  you  never  vary.  Let  me  kiss  your  mouth." 

"No,  no,  I  don't  know  why  I  allowed  you  to  do  so 
last  night.  I  never  allow  anyone  to  kiss  my  mouth — 
even  my  mother  never  kissed  it." 

"I  am  your  future  husband.  A  husband  has  privi- 
leges. .  .  ." 

"Richard!" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         113 

Her  face  was  gray  with  horror,  her  eyes  large  and 
lustrous  with  fear.  Having  brokeir  the  ice,  Richard 
plunged  on  in  headlong,  reckless  haste. 

"Betty — I  am  mad  for  you — quite  mad.  You  have 
promised  to  be  my  wife.  I  am  able  to  offer  you  a  com- 
fortable home  now,  and  you  shall  not  keep  me  waiting 
any  longer." 

All  the  purple  and  golden  mists  which  had  swathed  her 
love  were  rudely  torn  away.  The  fragrance,  the  dew- 
iness, the  ethereal  loveliness  of  her  love  lay  flawed  and 
shattered. 

"Richard — how  can  you  say  a  thing  of  that  sort  to 
me,"  she  gasped. 

"I  would  have  preferred  your  understanding  without 
my  being  so  plain.  But  you  forced  me  to  be  blunt." 

"I  refuse  to  continue  the  conversation." 

"Betty,  we  are  to  be  man  and  wife." 

"The  more  reason  why  you  should  respect  me." 

"Respect  you!  Good  Heavens!"  Richard  strode  up 
and  down,  running  his  fingers  nervously  through  his 
hair.  He  had  considered  himself  the  luckiest  of  men  in 
the  promise  of  Betty's  hand,  but  here  was  a  point  in 
which  his  Betty  was  not  calculated  to  make  him  happy. 
Here  was  the  rift  in  the  lute.  "Respect  you!"  he  re- 
peated. "You  don't  suppose  respecting  you  consists  in 
treating  you  as  if  you  were  a  disembodied  spirit,  do 
you?" 

"I  refuse  to  listen." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  ignorant  as 
well  as  innocent. 

"Betty,"  he  demanded  brusquely,  "do  you  know  the 
meaning  of  love?  I  really  wonder  if  you  do." 

"What  you  are  trying  to  tell  me  about  is  not  love. 
It's — oh,  I  cannot  even  say  the  poisonous  word." 

"Betty,   dear,"  he  said  very  patiently,   sitting  down 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

beside  her  again,  "you  must  understand  that  in  true 
love  there  is  a  feeling  very  different  from  mere  affec- 
tion. There  can  be  no  love  without  passion,  but  there 
can  be  passion  without  love.  What  I  feel  for  you  is 
true  love,  since  my  affection  was  wholly  yours  before 
you  awakened  in  me " 

"Don't  say  the  horrible  word  again,"  she  begged.  "It's 
odious." 

" the  deeper,  more  intense  feeling,"  he  said  very 

quietly. 

"If  you  knew  how  this  revolts  me." 

"Then,  Betty,  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  love  me." 

"I  do,  I  do.  I  haven't  a  thought  that  is  not  for  you. 
I  live  only  for  you,  Dicky.  How  can  you  say  I  do  not 
love  you  ?" 

"I  know  you  believe  you  do,  darling.  But  do  you? 
The  feeling  you  have  for  me  differs  quantitatively  only 
from  what  you  have  felt  for  others, — your  mother,  girl- 
friends. But  love  for  the  man  you  are  going  to  marry 
should  differ  qualitatively  as  well.  You  must  realize 
this,  Betty." 

"You  cannot  imagine,  Dicky,  that — I — no,  really,  I 
cannot  continue  this  conversation." 

"Sweetheart,  if  you  cannot  bear  to  discuss  the  most 
vital  matter  in  life  with  me — how  could  you  bear  to 
think  of  marrying  me?" 

The  look  of  fright  in  her  eyes  deepened  to  panic.  She 
said  nothing.  He  continued. 

"If  you  have  not  this  strange,  wonderful,  intense 
feeling  that  craves  the  most  intimate  relationship  pos- 
sible between  human  beings — between  lovers — you  do 
not  love  me." 

"Oh,  Richard,  I — I  do  not  believe  any  woman  can  be 
go  low,  so  vulgar,  as  to  feel  like  that." 

"Low?    Vulgar?"    He  stared  at  her.    Then  he  rose 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         115 

and  resumed  walking  the  floor.  "Good  Heavens,"  he 
said,  "is  that  the  way  it  seems  to  you?"  There  fell  a 
brief  pause.  "Betty,"  he  said,  speaking  with  such  a 
degree  of  tenderness  as,  tender  though  he  habitually  was 
with  her,  she  had  never  known  him  to  employ,  "the  only 
feeling  that  renders  the  marriage  relation  pure  and  en- 
nobles it  is  passion,  passion  allied  to  the  affection  which 
needs  no  explaining.  To  approach  marriage  in  any 
other  way  makes  it  unchaste  and  unhallowed.  Nature 
has  meant  this  to  be  so,  or  she  would  not  have  implanted 
the  strong,  primordial  sex-instinct  in  men  and  women." 

She  had  not  met  his  eyes  once  while  he  was  speaking, 
and  he  could  see  that  his  words  had  filled  her  with  re- 
sentment and  hostility. 

"Won't  you  try  at  least,  Betty,  to  understand  my 
viewpoint?"  he  pleaded. 

"Certainly  not.  I  would  despise  myself  if  I  could 
look  at  the  matter  in  any  other  light.  Certain  things 
are  so  unspeakable  that  self-respecting  women  do  not 
attempt  to  understand  them." 

"Betty — you  are  a  child,  an  unawakened  child;  your 
more  mature  faculties  are  still  dormant.  If  I  were 
to  try  to  marry  you  now,  I  would  be  a  monster.  I 
would  be  violating  your  innocence." 

He  paused.     A  horrible  fear  swept  over  him. 

"It  is  possible,"  he  said,  speaking  with  profound  emo- 
tion, "that  what  I  suggested  before  is  quite  true.  You 
may  not  love  me.  If  you  loved  me,  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  would  have  the  po\ver  to  stimulate  in  you  the  feelings 
which  you  have  stimulated  in  me.  I  will  not  again 
urge  you  to  let  our  marriage  take  place  until  I  am  sure 
of  this  point — until  I  know  that  I  have  awakened  a 
corresponding  feeling  in  you." 

"Then  we  will  never  be  married,"  she  said  com- 
posedly. 


116         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Her  quiet,  deliberate,  unshakable  obstinacy  angered 
him  unreasonably. 

"Now  that  I  know  how  you  feel  about  marriage,"  he 
said  with  the  iciness  of  passion  arrested  and  reversed, 
"I  can  only  marvel  at  the  singularity  of  the  mental 
processes  that  led  you  to  make  the  rash  promise  of 
marrying  me.  Frankly,  why  did  you  engage  yourself 
to  me?" 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  faltered,  "that  now  that  you 
know  how  I  feel  about  things — what  I  think — you  wish 
to  break  our  engagement?" 

Inexperienced  as  Richard  was  with  women,  intuition 
told  him  that  no  mature  woman  would  have  asked  that 
question.  Her  pride  would  have  impelled  her  to  seek 
more  devious  means  of  ascertaining  the  man's  wishes. 
Realizing  the  significance  of  the  candid  question,  Rich- 
ard felt  his  anger  melt  away. 

"No,  little  Betty,"  he  said  gently,  "I  do  not  wish  to 
break  our  engagement.  I  love  you  so  well  that  I  will 
wait,  wait  indefinitely  in  the  hope  that  you  will  awaken 
some  day  to  your  woman's  heritage.  But  tell  me,  Betty 
— I  am  really  curious  to  know — how  did  you  have  the 
courage  to  engage  yourself  to  me — to  anyone?" 

Betty  did  not  reply.  Her  face  was  a  chalky  white 
as  she  sat  with  lowered  eyes,  her  hands  crossed  above 
her  bosom,  as  if  to  restrain  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
The  characteristic  gesture  told  of  her  inward  turmoil. 
Suddenly  he  comprehended. 

"Betty,  darling,  did  you  think  that  yourself  and  I 
were  alike  in  that  we  differed  from  all  other  men  and 
women?" 

In  response,  she  nodded  her  head,  without  speaking. 
To  facilitate  resting  her  head  against  the  pillows,  she 
had  not  pinned  up  her  hair,  and  the  black  curls  bobbed 
up  and  down  and  around  the  snowy  neck  as  she  nodded. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         117 

At  the  moment  she  looked  not  like  a  young  woman  of 
eighteen,  but  like  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen.  A  di- 
vine tenderness  welled  up  in  him,  a  tenderness  so  acute 
and  intense  and  reverent  that  it  swept  passion  before  it 
and  scattered  it  to  the  winds. 

"And  now  that  you  know,  darling,  that  what  I  feel  for 
you  is  due  to  my  red  corpuscled  blood,  you  don't  want 
to  throw  me  over?" 

"No." 

"Betty,  that  means,  doesn't  it,  that  you  believe  the 
other  feeling  may  come  some  day?" 

"No,  Richard,  no." 

Her  tone  conveyed  repugnance  and  contempt.  Per- 
plexed, he  stared  at  her  for  a  few  moments,  then  he 
put  his  arm  about  her,  and  drew  her  gently  to  his 
breast. 

With  a  little  sob  she  surrendered  herself  to  his  em- 
brace. Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  the  eyelids  fluttered 
lightly,  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  not  wholly  at  rest.  A 
dull,  smoldering  resentment  began  to  burn  in  him  be- 
cause of  this  unforeseen  barrier  which  was  interposing 
itself  between  them.  He  realized  that  he  lacked  the 
experience  to  tear  this  barrier  away,  and  this  realiza- 
tion was  a  new  source  of  bitterness  and  rancor.  He 
suspected  that  if  he  had  led  what  is  commonly  described 
as  a  man's  life,  if  he  had  had  experience  with  women, 
he  might  not  now  be  so  utterly  at  loss  as  to  the  path 
to  pursue  in  making  Betty  look  at  "things"  in  a  normal 
way.  He  was  paying  the  penalty  of  a  pure  life.  Dis- 
gust, and  a  wholesome,  invincible  respect  for  his  own 
body,  which  in  its  reverent  intensity  was  almost  Greek 
in  character,  had  made  him  keep  to  the  narrow  path  of 
clean  living.  Richard  had  a  very  deep-rooted  respect 
for  nature  which  was  all  the  stronger  because  he  was 
unconscious  of  it,  and  this  unquestioning  respect  for 


118         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

nature  and  her  methods  made  Betty's  attitude  all  the 
more  inexplicable  to  him.  Moreover,  it  seemed  hor- 
ribly unfair  that  this  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  girl  he 
loved  should  have  been  his  portion,  because  he  had 
lived  so  cleanly  in  every  respect. 

For  once  his  ready  sympathy  with  others  failed  him. 
He  did  not  guess  how  turbulent  were  the  thoughts  that 
inhabited  the  head  resting  placidly  upon  his  shoulder. 
Betty  was  trying  to  reconstruct  her  little  world,  which 
had  come  crashing  about  her  ears.  Her  idol  had  clay 
feet.  He  was  not  divine — merely  human — in  Betty's 
cruel  young  eyes  a  little  less  than  human.  But  her  na- 
tive optimism  would  not  allow  her  to  sink  into  a  slough 
of  despond.  She  reminded  herself  that  for  some  time 
she  must  have  suspected  this  subconsciously  more  than 
half,  since  she  had  so  vociferously  assured  herself  over 
and  over  again  that  he  was  unlike  other  men  in  this 
one  respect  as  in  all  others,  and  vociferous  asseveration 
of  one's  belief  is  usually  the  index  of  faith  at  low  ebb. 
At  any  rate,  if  Dicky  shared  the  curious  desires  of  man- 
kind at  large,  she  was  quite  certain  that  there  was  no 
man  alive  who  did  not,  and  so,  according  to  her 
woman's  logic,  her  Dicky,  since  he  was  Dicky,  still 
stood  head  and  shoulders  above  everyone  else. 

She  supposed  that  she  would  have  to  endure  her  hus- 
band's embrace  as  other  women  had  endured  theirs  be- 
fore her.  Women,  it  seemed,  were  foredoomed  to  be 
martyrs  and  sufferers  in  one  way  or  another.  At  least 
that  is  the  way  it  appeared  to  her. 

Roughly  speaking,  women,  as  regards  virtue,  are  of 
three  kinds.  In  the  first  class  belongs  the  woman  who 
is  irremediably  a  courtesan,  and  who,  no  matter  what 
her  station  and  income,  continues  a  courtesan  because 
impropriety  has  a  charm  for  her  and  irregularity  pre- 
sents a  glamour.  In  the  second  class  belongs  the  woman 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         119 

who  has  remained  virtuous  because  temptation  either 
did  not  come  her  way,  or  was  not  great  enough  to  lure 
her.  This  class  comprises  by  far  the  greatest  number 
of  women,  and  their  virtue  is  more  or  less  a  matter  of 
accident;  being  normal,  they  might  have  been  tempted, 
being  tempted,  they  might  have  been  led  astray.  The 
reason  that  the  largest  number  of  women  in  this  class 
keep  to  the  narrow,  thorny  path  of  virtue  is  that  the 
path,  after  all,  is  not  so  very  narrow  and  thorny  in  the 
case  of  the  average  woman.  Then,  too,  the  man  in 
question  may  have  been  a  bungler  in  the  arts  of  se- 
duction. 

In  the  third  class  belongs  the  woman  who  is  temper- 
amentally incapable  of  going  wrong,  because  she  does 
not  know  the  meaning  of  passion.  The  consummation 
of  marriage  is  to  her  a  concession  made  to  man's  lower 
nature,  and  no  consideration  under  the  sun  can  impel 
her  to  leave  the  path  of  virtue,  except  under  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  law.  For  marriage  to  her  is  a  divergence 
from  virtue,  celibacy  the  only  state  of  purity  possible. 
She  marries  for  a  host  of  reasons,  never  for  the  natu- 
ral one.  The  status  which  marriage  confers  upon  the 
woman,  a  betterment  of  herself  in  a  financial  way,  af- 
fection, a  romantic  attachment,  because  it  is  the  cus- 
tom, curiosity — these  are  the  lode-stones  that  drag  her 
into  the  matrimonial  net.  After  marriage,  she  remains 
passively  hostile  to  her  husband,  and  passes  through 
life  half-awake,  half-asleep,  not  infrequently  bearing 
children,  yet  remaining  a  virgin  in  feeling  and  compli- 
menting herself  upon  the  fact  as  upon  a  colossal  achieve- 
ment in  saintliness.  Her  coldness  vindicates  her  in  her 
own  eyes  for  her  lapse  into  the  married  state.  Medi-< 
cal  science  calls  such  women  defective. 

Betty  belonged  to  the  third  class.  The  brutal  cyni- 
cism of  her  mother  had  fortified  her  attitude.  She  felt 


120         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

certain  that  she  alone  was  right.  She  would  either  have 
to  lose  Richard,  his  companionship  and  affection,  or 
submit  to  the  inevitable.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
She  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  things.  And  as 
there  is  no  time  like  the  present,  she  decided  to  make 
the  burnt  offering  at  once. 

"Dicky !" 

"Yes,  Betty?" 

"Dick,  I'll  do  as  you  wish,  dear.  If  you  wish  to  get 
married  soon — I  am  willing." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  For  one  moment  he 
thought  that  she  had  changed  her  viewpoint.  Then  he 
understood. 

"You  mean,  without  loving  me,  you  are  willing  to 
yield  yourself  in  marriage?" 

"I  mean,"  she  corrected  him  gently,  "that  I  love  you 
so  well  that  I  am  willing  to  submit  to  what  is  unavoid- 
able." 

She  spoke  proudly.  The  beautiful  face  had  lost  its 
childish  expression  of  sweet  obstinacy.  The  pride  of 
having  conquered  herself,  of  having  partially  renounced 
her  own  criterion,  gave  her  an  almost  regal  air,  and 
the  tragic  element  of  the  episode  made  her  appear  for 
the  first  time  as  a  thorough,  full-fledged  woman.  Some 
quality  about  her  awed  him.  He  was  filled  with  won- 
der that,  though  appearing  so  wholly  a  woman,  she 
was  not  entirely  a  woman.  At  the  moment  it  was 
not  so  much  pity  for  her,  or  tenderness  for  her 
child  nature,  or  love  or  sympathy,  but  pride  and 
self-respect. 

"It's  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  would  not  think  of 
marrying  you  after  all  you  have  said,  until  your  atti- 
tude in  regard  to  marriage  is  changed  materially." 

"I  think  you  should  be  satisfied  with  the  change  that 
has  already  occurred,"  she  said. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         121 

"But  I'm  not,"  he  assured  her.  If  he  dared  say  to 
her  what  he  thought — that,  loving  her  as  he  did,  he 
would  not,  could  not,  degrade  her  by  marrying  her  un- 
less she  fully  responded  to  his  love.  He  essayed  to 
formulate  the  thought  in  language  which  would  not  be 
offensive  to  her,  but  did  not  succeed.  He  could  not  be 
raw  with  her.  He  was  astonished  to  find  himself  thus 
frank  with  himself.  He  was  amazed  furthermore  at 
the  sudden  knowledge  of  things  vouchsafed  him,  and  not 
the  least  wonder  of  it  all  was  that  his  vocabulary  was 
enlarging  to  keep  pace  with  the  enlargement  of  his 
horizon. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "can't  you  try  to  look  at  it  in  this 
light?  It  is  nature's  way  of  providing  for  the  perpetu- 
ation of  the  race." 

"Richard,  are  we  never  to  leave  the  subject?" 

"But,  dearest — children — surely  you  care.  .  .?" 

"When  we  marry,  I  shall  expect  to  assume  all  the 
duties  of  a  wife." 

Her  inflexibility,  her  frigidity,  was  beginning  to  wear 
him  out.  He  experienced  a  feeling  akin  to  physical 
fatigue.  But  his  passion  did  not  abate.  He  felt  des- 
perate. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "isn't  there  some  older  woman  whom 
you  could  speak  to  about  this?  There  are  things  I 
cannot  say  to  you.  .  .  ." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Betty.  "I  would  allow  no  one 
to  discuss  such  matters  with  me  except  yourself.  Re- 
member, Dick,  I  have  told  you  I  will  marry  you  when- 
ever you  wish.  More  than  that  you  cannot  expect  of 
me,  for  surely  you  cannot  demand  that  I  pretend  to 
emotions  of  which  I  am  totally  ignorant." 

Richard  became  intensely  excited. 

"Surely  you  are  too  honest  to  pretend  to  anything  that 
is  not  true,"  he  said.  "It's  like  cheating  at  cards." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Very  well,  I  am  glad  you  do  not  wish  me  to  cheat 
you,"  Betty  retorted. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered  desperately,  "I  want  to  teach 
you  to  look  forward  to  marriage  as  a  completion,  a 
culmination  of  our  spiritual  unity." 

"I  consider  ourselves  bound  in  a  spiritual  unity  so 
inviolable  that  it  requires  neither  culmination  nor  com- 
pletion." 

He  caught  his  breath.  He  had  played  his  trump  card 
without  avail.  He  sat  and  looked  at  her,  broodingly. 
How  wonderfully  beautiful  she  was! 

He  noted  her  many  perfections,  as  if  they  had  been 
new  to  him ;  the  arched  red  mouth,  with  its  upward  dip, 
the  mass  of  black  hair  falling  about  the  alabaster  col- 
umn of  throat.  Her  skin  exerted  the  chief  fascination 
upon  Richard,  because  it  was  not  dusky,  like  the  aver- 
age brunette's,  but  a  dazzling,  pearly  white.  At  the 
temples  the  skin  was  so  fine  and  delicate  that  it  re- 
vealed a  network  of  blue  veins. 

He  thought  of  Charmides,  and  he  no  longer  won- 
dered at  the  mad  ecstasy  that  drove  him  to  shower  kisses 
upon  the  statue  of  the  goddess.  Mad  thoughts  bubbled 
through  his  brain.  In  the  studio  of  a  sculptor  whom 
he  had  met  through  Telfer's,  he  had  seen  the  life-size 
statue  of  a  New  York  society  woman.  It  pleased  Rich- 
ard to  think  that  if  he  possessed  such  a  statue  of  Betty 
he  would  take  an  infinite  joy  in  folding  in  his  arms 
the  cold  marble,  in  madly  kissing  the  unresponsive  pre- 
sentment of  arms  and  shoulders  and  bosom. 

There  was  something  of  the  feminine  in  Richard 
Pryce,  as  there  is  in  all  artists.  He  was  capable  of 
running  through  as  many  moods  in  an  hour,  or  a  min- 
ute, as  the  most  capricious  of  women.  Suddenly  the 
sight  of  Betty,  so  cold  and  self-possessed,  made  him 
furious.  He  began  pounding  up  and  down  the  room, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         123 

flinging  question  after  question  at  her,  and  accusations 
as  well.  He  accused  her  of  being  willfully  cold  to  tor- 
ment him.  In  the  next  breath,  wholly  unconscious  of 
the  inconsistency,  he  told  her  that  she  was  cheating 
herself  of  the  greatest  joy  which  life  holds  in  store  for 
anyone.  Betty  had  seen  him  furious  upon  minor  provo- 
cations before,  and  fortunately  had  sufficient  self-com- 
mand to  refrain  from  retorting.  She  knew  that  in  half 
an  hour  he  would  be  on  his  knees  begging  her  pardon 
for  words  which  he  remembered  were  cruel  but  which 
themselves  he  would  not  be  able  to  recall  by  that  time. 

She  propped  herself  up  comfortably  on  her  pillows, 
and  allowed  the  emotional  tornado  to  sweep  over  her. 
Just  then  the  anticlimax  occurred.  Nora  entered  the 
room,  without  knocking,  and  announced  that  a  man 
from  a  restaurant  was  below,  with  dinner.  What  was 
she  to  do?  Bring  it  upstairs? 

Richard  laughed  hoarsely. 

"You  may  eat  it  yourself  for  all  I  care,"  he  said,  and 
strode  from  the  room,  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"Hello,  my  dear  chap;  glad  to  see  you — yes,  I'm  just 
back  from  Europe!" 

A  tall,  square-shouldered,  singularly  handsome  and 
debonair  man  shook  hands  effusively  with  Richard,  but 
the  effusiveness  of  his  greeting  was  tinged  with  a  sur- 
face veneer  and  deliberate  grace  of  manner  which  hall- 
marked the  debonair  gentleman  as  being  of  the  stage. 
His  enunciation  was  that  of  a  Chumley;  his  manner 
Chesterfieldian. 

Betty,  sitting  on  the  gallery  that  ran  lengthwise  of 
the  store,  where  she  superintended  the  mail  order  girls 
on  mornings  when  business  was  dull  in  her  own  de- 
partment, looked  curiously  over  the  railing  to  get  an- 
other glimpse  of  the  individual  who  had  caused  the 
general  hubbub,  for  the  girls  had  all  become  pleasantly 
flustered,  pink-cheeked  and  bright-eyed.  Now  that  the 
roseate  and  golden  mists  of  the  Arcadian  landscape  had 
been  dissipated,  she  was  ready  once  more  to  take  a 
normal  interest  in  the  rest  of  the  world,  not  that  she 
loved  her  Dick  less,  but  the  quality  of  blind  admira- 
tion which  had  made  a  unique  thing  of  her  love  had 
died  the  day  she  made  the  cruel  discovery  that  her 
Dicky  was  only  human.  And  as  her  passion  still  slum- 
bered, if,  indeed,  it  was  ever  to  be  aroused,  thre  was  no 
other  feeling  to  take  the  place  of  her  dead,  blind  wor- 
ship of  him. 

Having  completed  the  amenities  of  greeting,  the  hand- 
some gentleman  inquired  of  Richard: 


THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART         125 

"Mr.  Telfer  not  down  yet?  It  is  almost  eleven. 
Really,  I  shall  have  to  discharge  him." 

The  girls  giggled. 

"Ain't  he  the  jollier?"  stage-whispered  Miss  Connors 
to  Miss  Sharpe,  a  lackadaisical  Polish-American  Jewess 
who  prided  herself  upon  her  "elegant"  vocabulary  and 
''ladylike"  manners.  Miss  Sharpe's  name  had  originally 
been  Schapirowitz,  but,  at  the  early  age  of  nine,  her 
astute  Jewish  mind,  further  polished  and  sharpened  by 
an  American  public  school,  perceived  the  very  obvious 
advantages  of  Americanizing  her  name,  which  she  had 
proceeded  to  do  by  easy  stages.  The  cycle  of  changes 
read,  "Schapirowitz,  Schapiro,  Shapiro,  Shap,  Shaap, 
Sharp,  Sharpe — an  evolution  as  astounding  sociologi- 
cally as  the  physiological  changes  recounted  by  Profes- 
sor Haeckel  as  occurring  to  the  human  embryo. 

"He  is  handsomer  than  ever,"  said  Miss  Sharpe. 

These  varying  expressions  of  sincere  admiration  left 
Betty  as  much  in  the  dark  as  before  as  to  the  debonair 
gentleman's  identity.  He  was  insolently  handsome;  his 
personality  was  striking  enough  to  be  termed  aggressive ; 
all  in  all  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  him,  but  much  as 
she  wanted  to  know  who  he  was,  she  was  too  proud  to 
ask  either  of  the  two  girls.  Betty  was  slightly  old- 
fashioned.  She  thought  it  bad  taste  to  evince  an  in- 
terest in  any  man.  Just  then  she  heard  Richard,  in 
answering,  address  the  stranger  as  "Mr.  Telfer."  Then 
Betty  knew  that  the  radiant  personage  was  Mr.  Telfer's 
actor-son,  who  had  been  summering  abroad,  and  who 
was  cast  in  the  titular  role  of  a  play  called  "The  Sun- 
God,"  heralded  as  "the  most  spectacular  show  ever  pro- 
duced on  any  stage." 

Archibald  Telfer  followed  Richard  across  the  floor 
to  Richard's  private  office,  a  dignity  to  which  Richard 
had  attained  since  his  promotion.  Half  across  the 


126         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

main  room  he  halted  and  turned.  Betty  could  not  sup- 
press  a  smile  as  she  realized  how  neatly  he  had  com- 
puted the  exact  distance  which  would  allow  him  to 
glance  up  to  the  gallery  without  being  forced  to  assume 
an  ungraceful  attitude  or  to  crane  his  neck  unduly. 

"I  perceive,"  he  said,  bowing  with  mock  gallantry, 
"that  the  gallery  goddesses  are  still  there."  His  eye 
fell  upon  Betty.  For  a  moment  he  stood  silent.  The 
insolent,  handsome  face  did  not  move  a  muscle.  The 
only  indication  of  having  seen  her  which  he  gave 
was  a  barely  perceptible  kindling  of  the  eyes.  Then  he 
raised  his  hat  once  more — bowing  pointedly  to  Betty 
only. 

"I  salute  the  new  goddess,"  he  said;  "when  she  de- 
scends from  the  clouds,  I  hope  to  be  introduced." 

Turning  on  his  heel,  he  prodded  Richard's  waistline 
with  his  stick,  and  said: 

"Come  on,  Pryce,  I  want  a  little  talk  with  you." 

Richard,  looking  anything  but  pleased,  walked  into 
his  office,  holding  open  the  door  for  "the  old  man's 
son"  with  very  poor  grace. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  wish  they  would  leave  the  door 
open  so  we  could  see  him.  Ain't  he  the  one  grand 
thing?"  sighed  Miss  Connors.  "In  a  world  of  ugly 
men,  ain't  it  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  to  see  the  handsomest 
creature  that  ever  walked  on  two  pins  without  having 
to  pay  fifty  cents  for  a  back  seat  in  the  peanut  gallery 
for  the  privolidge?  Ain't  it  now,  honist?" 

Miss  Sharpe  smiled  indulgently.  Her  liquid,  almond- 
shaped  eyes  had  deepened  in  intensity,  telling  plainly  as 
words  that  she  too  was  not  unimpressed  by  Archie  Tel- 
fer's  pleasing  exterior. 

"I  know  a  girl,"  pursued  Miss  Connors,  "who  goes 
to  the  show  he  plays  in  year  after  year  onct  a  week  in 
purfurence  to  seeing  other  plays  just  so  she  can  look 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

him  over.  That  girl's  in  love  with  him.  Yes,  ma'am," 
she  concluded,  "she's  plum  crazy  about  him." 

"Really?"  inquired  Miss  Sharpe,  weighing  the  little 
word  down  with  as  much  emphasis  as  it  could  possibly 
carry.  Her  irony  was  too  fine  to  check  Miss  Connor's 
flow  of  eloquence  now  she  had  a  subject  worthy  of  it. 

"Sure  thing — daffy,  that's  what  she  is  about  him. 
But  he  is  a  good-looker,  and  no  mistake.  Why,  merely 
to  see  him  sit  down  is  an  edoocation  in  Delsheart  move- 
ments." 

She  paused,  rolled  and  gummed  into  a  wrapper  the 
sheet  of  music  she  was  handling.  Then  she  turned  to 
Betty.  Had  Miss  Garside  ever  seen  him  sit  down? 

Betty  had  not,  as  she  told  Miss  Connors  frigidly. 
Then,  chin  in  air,  she  walked  away,  furious  with  her- 
self for  having  betrayed  even  a  superficial  interest  in 
anyone  who  interested  these  two  vulgarians. 

Archie  Telfer,  meanwhile,  had  performed  the  rite 
which  Miss  Connors  described  as  a  part  of  the  "Dels- 
heartian  edoocation." 

"Well,  Richard,"  he  exclaimed  with  much  show  of 
good-fellowship,  "I  haven't  seen  the  governor  yet.  Hale 
and  hearty  as  always,  I  suppose?  Wonderful  constitu- 
tion for  a  man  of  his  age.  Yes,  I'm  just  off  the  boat." 

"What  boat  did  you  come  on?"  asked  Richard,  in 
order  to  say  something.  Archie  Telfer  always  irritated 
him  unaccountably. 

"The  Proteus." 

"The  Proteus?  Why,  she  got  in  three  days  ago,"  ex- 
claimed Richard  in  surprise. 

Archie  Telfer  sounded  the  laugh  which  a  groveling 
press  in  appraising  the  value  of  each  individual  per- 
fection of  the  "Adonis  of  the  Stage"  had  valued  at  a 
hundred  dollars  a  week.  Richard  became  more  and 
more  angry.  He  could  not  have  said  why. 


1£8         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"There  was  no  reason  under  the  sun,  my  dear  boy," 
said  Archie  Telfer,  the  soft,  resonant  laugh  having  died 
away,  "why  I  should  inflict  myself  upon  the  poor  man 
the  moment  I  landed  because  he  happens  to  be  my 
father — particularly  in  view  of  my  marital  entangle- 
ments." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Richard  in  surprise.  "Did  you 
get  married  this  summer?" 

"Softly,  softly,  my  good  fellow,  not  yet.  But  no  less 
than  three  ladies  are  at  present  aspiring  to  the  advan- 
tage of  my  hand  and  name." 

Richard  looked  uncomfortable.  He  suspected  some 
unsavory  story. 

Archie  Telfer  pulled  out  a  cigarette  case  of  lizard 
skin  with  monogram  mounted  in  diamonds.  He  offered 
Richard  a  cigarette.  Richard  declined.  Archie,  in  light- 
ing his,  performed  .  the  fifty-dollar-a-week  parcel  of 
his  attractions.  Archie  Telfer  always  used  his  own 
blend  of  cigarettes — a  small  package  of  which  was  given 
free  to  each  matinee  idolater  at  every  hundredth  matinee 
during  the  season.  Miss  Connors,  smelling  the  aro- 
matic weed,  almost  burst  into  tears  because  she  had 
not  see  him  light  it. 

Archie  continued  suavely:  "Of  course,  such  an  im- 
broglio would  be  impossible  for  you,  who  are  a  Joseph. 
But  I  am  not  a  Joseph.  I  love  the  ladies,  God  bless 
'em.  And  they  love  me.  God  bless  'em  again." 

He  inhaled  the  smoke  luxuriously  and  sat  regarding 
Richard  with  a  satisfied  air.  Like  many  another  man 
of  lax  morality,  Archie  Telfer's  manner  was  quite  im- 
peccable. Richard,  looking  at  him,  felt  a  sudden  tight- 
ening of  the  heart  strings.  This  man  was  lionized  wher- 
ever he  went.  Although  his  person  was  groomed  to  a 
finish,  and  his  manner  overlaid  with  a  myriad  of  petty 
artifices,  he  was  still  a  man  of  intense  masculinity,  while 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         129 

in  Richard,  in  spite  of  the  mad  jets  of  passion  which 
flared  and  burned  in  him,  the  woman-nature  was  always 
more  or  less  apparent,  as  perhaps  it  is  in  all  men  in 
whom  the  artistic  sense  predominates.  The  streak  of 
femininity  in  him  came  to  the  surface  now.  He  felt 
a  singular  desire  to  take  Archie  Telfer  into  his  confi- 
dence. Reason,  saner  than  emotion,  cautioned  him  to 
beware  of  the  man  and  whispered  that  spiritual  com- 
munion with  him  must  needs  bring  spiritual  pollution. 

Archie  was  everything  that  Richard  was  not.  He  was 
frankly  a  debauchee,  glorying  in  and  boastful  of  his 
career  as  a  libertine.  He  was  not  overscrupulous  in 
money  matters.  He  regarded  his  art  merely  as  a  liveli- 
hood and  played  up  his  personal  beauty  whenever  and 
wherever  he  could.  A  moment  ago  Richard  had  hated 
him,  but  his  tortured  and  harrowed  nerves,  like  a 
woman's,  swung  now  to  the  opposite  extreme.  He  felt 
a  sudden  fascination  for  the  man,  not  in  spite  of  his 
wickedness,  but  because  of  it.  Richard  felt  vaguely 
that  Archie,  known  as  a  pastmaster  of  every  seductive 
art,  might  be  able  to  help  him  and  advise  him  how  to 
overcome  Betty's  strange  frame  of  mind.  The  thought, 
now  he  had  formulated  it,  seemed  odious  to  Richard. 
He  shrank  with  something  akin  to  shame  from  himself 
who  would  have  discussed  Betty's  purity  with  this  man. 
Nevertheless  the  longing  to  wrest  from  Archie  the  se- 
cret of  his  success  with  women  remained.  Richard  was 
beginning  to  feel  his  inability  to  awaken  Betty  as  a  per- 
sonal shortcoming,  and  this  longing  made  Richard  more 
placable  in  conversation  than  it  was  his  custom  with 
Archie  Telfer. 

"I  am  not  a  Joseph,"  resumed  Archie  Telfer.  "I  can 
tell  you,  my  dear  Pryce,  there  is  no  pleasure  on  earth 
comparable  to  the  pursuit  of  a  woman.  Don't  look 
shocked,  my  dear  boy.  No  man  is  wholly  a  man  until 


130 


he  has  become  an  infallible  judge  of  the  eternal  femi- 
nine. To  be  that  means  to  be  master  of  the  situation, 
and  the  pleasures,  after  the  chase  has  been  successfully 
completed  and  the  game  run  to  cover,  are  not  to  be 
despised." 

He  smoked  in  silence.  Richard  told  himself  that 
even  to  enter  into  a  conversation  with  this  man  who 
spoke  thus  lightly  of  women  was  despicable.  But  a 
blind,  unreasoning  force  seemed  to  push  him  on. 

"Tell  me,  Archie,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  and  speak- 
ing in  an  undertone,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  own  words, 
"did  you  ever  fail  with  a  woman?" 

The  fifty-dollar-a-week  laugh  again  enriched  the  un- 
appreciative  air. 

"My  dear  boy,  that  question  is  indeed  a  prodigious 
compliment." 

"But  did  you?" 

"I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  failed  with  at  least  one 
of  the  present  trio,"  sighed  Archie.  "Think  of  it — my 
dear  boy — three  breach  of  promise  suits  in  the  courts 
against  me,  at  one  time.  But  what  a  lot  of  free  adver- 
tising 'The  Sun-God'  will  get  out  of  it,  eh?" 

"Defending  the  suits  will  cost  you  a  pretty  penny, 
won't  it?" 

"I  may  marry  one  of  the  three  at  the  last  moment 
in  order  to  make  the  other  two  suits  impossible.  I  tell 
you,  my  dear  chap,  this  three-ring  circus  will  get  me  a 
full-page  write-up  in  every  enterprising  Sunday  paper 
in  town.  The  seat  sale  starts  next  Monday — two  months 
in  advance  of  the  opening  night,  and  they  have  four 
paper  baskets  of  mail  orders  in  the  box  office  even  now. 
Think  what  the  seat  sale  will  be  after  the  story  of  my 
triplicate  of  would-be  wives  gets  into  the  papers.  On 
the  whole  I  do  not  regret  my  triangular  conquest." 

"All  three  this  summer?"    Richard  hated  himself  for 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         131 

feeling  something  vaguely  approaching  envy.  The  mas- 
culine element  in  him  was  in  abeyance  at  the  moment, 
the  feminine  was  in  the  ascendant.  He  experienced 
the  anomalous  emotion  of  whole-heartedly  regretting 
the  clean  life  he  had  led,  not  for  the  sake  of  pleasure 
foregone  but  of  wisdom  ungathered. 

"All  three,"  Archie  replied,  inhaling  the  smoke  from 
his  cigarette  with  huge  satisfaction.  "Tell  me,  Richard, 
you  don't  look  up  to  the  mark.  Like  Hamlet,  you  ap- 
pear to  be  in  a  morbid  frame  of  mind.  'Man  contents 
me  not — no,  nor  woman  either,  though  by  your  smiles 
you  seem  to  say  so.'  You  are  making  a  mistake,  my 
boy,  in  wasting  your  life  in  interpreting  all  too  rigidly 
the  meaning  of  celibacy.  Take  it  from  one  who  has 
never  regretted  his  misspent  youth.  The  only  way  to 
live  is  to  enjoy,  to  enjoy  fastidiously  and  moderately, 
day  by  day,  night  by  night,  week  by  week.  'Wine, 
women  and  laughter' — old  Martin  Luther's  all-embrac- 
ing doctrine  of  life  is  the  sum  of  every  sane  man's 
philosophy." 

"Isn't  there  a  line  in  Shakespeare,"  Richard  asked  in- 
nocently, which  runs,  'The  devil  can  cite  Scripture  for 
his  purpose'?  Poor  old  Martin  Luther,  to  be  thus 
abused." 

Archie  Telfer  laughed. 

"And  there  was  good  old  Samuel  Johnson,"  he  said. 
"You  remember,  don't  you,  what  he  said  to  David  Gar- 
rick?  'Nay,  nay,  Davie,  I'll  come  no  more  behind  your 
scenes,  for  the  white  bosoms  and  silk  stockings  of  your 
actresses  excite  my  amorous  propensities.' " 

Richard  sat  stonily  silent.  He  regretted  having  en- 
tered into  this  conversation,  but  his  suffering  had  cor- 
roded the  marrow  of  his  moral  resistance.  He  hated 
himself  for  it,  but  he  wanted  to  hear  more  of  this  man's 
blatant  immorality. 


132         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"What's  the  matter,  Pryce?"  asked  Archie.  "I've 
never  seen  you  so  down  in  the  mouth.  I'm  no  fortune- 
teller, but  I'll  hazard  one  guess.  You're  in  love,  and 
your  inamorata  does  not  return  your  passion.  Am  I 
right?" 

"I  am  in  love,"  Richard  replied.  His  voice  grew 
husky  at  the  mere  thought  of  Betty.  Until  now  he  had 
confided  the  agony  which  had  been  his  daily  portion  for 
the  past  months  to  no  one.  Now  that  his  reticence  had 
suffered  the  first  breach,  he  was  ready  to  pour  himself 
out  to  the  first  chance  listener.  He  would  have  voiced 
his  lamentations  to  a  statue. 

"I'm  crazily,  idiotically,  in  love,"  Richard  continued. 
/'I  never  imagined  it  would  be  like  this.  It's  just  hell, 
that's  what  it  is,  and  yet  I  wouldn't  part  with  the  feeling 
for  worlds." 

"Did  you  try  to  win  her  or  did  you  ask  her  to  marry 
you?" 

Richard  flushed. 

"Naturally,  I  asked  her  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  might  have  known  it.  Of 
course  you  belong  to  the  type  of  man  who,  because  of  a 
fleeting  infatuation,  finds  it  incumbent  to  offer  to  sup- 
port the  woman,  who  inspires  it,  for  life." 

Richard  frowned.  He  wished  to  retort,  but  his  mind, 
all  jangled  and  out  of  tune  with  suppressed  passion, 
was  no  match  at  the  moment  for  the  worldly-wise, 
gracefully  philosophical  mind  of  Archie  Telfer. 

"How  foolish  you  are,  Richard,"  Archie  continued, 
"to  take  yourself  so  seriously.  Do  you  suppose  a  nor- 
mal man  falls  in  love  only  once  in  a  lifetime?  Roman- 
tic love,  pah! — there  is  no  such  thing!  I  assure  you, 
as  a  man  gains  in  experience,  the  chase  is  the  principal 
feature.  At  times  I  prolong  it  purposely— one  drinks 
a  cocktail  slowly  at  times  when  one's  appetite  is  low. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         133 

Come,  my  dear  fellow,  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what  the 
trouble  is.    Doesn't  she  reciprocate  your — ahem — love?" 

Again  a  tocsin  of  warning  sounded  somewhere  inside 
of  Richard's  brain.  But  his  nerves  were  demoralized 
to  the  degree  reached  by  a  horse  when,  from  fear  of 
fire,  it  leaps  directly  into  the  flames. 

"She  has  promised  to  marry  me,"  he  said,  as  warily 
as  he  could. 

"Marriage  and  love  are  not  synonymous." 

"She  loves  me." 

"Then  what's  wrong  ?    Who,  by  the  way,  is  the  "lady  ?" 

"Never  mind  who  she  is." 

Archie  Telfer  looked  hard  at  Richard  and  under- 
stood. He  laughed. 

"The  new  gallery  goddess,"  he  said. 

"Don't  call  her  that." 

"What  then?" 

"She  takes  my  position  as  chief  clerk  and  pianist." 

"Very  well.  I'll  call  her  your  divinity  instead  of 
goddess.  And  now  that  her  identity  is  established,  I 
think  I  can  diagnose  the  trouble.  A  perambulating  ice- 
berg, eh?" 

"I  don't  care  for  the  expression." 

"Come,  come,  my  dear  boy,  cultivate  a  sense  of  hu- 
mor. It  helps  one  over  many  rough  bumps,  even  the 
bumps  of  an  iceberg." 

Richard  bit  his  lip.  This  served  him  right,  he  thought 
bitterly,  for  broaching  the  subject  of  his  love  to  this 
roue.  It  was  insufferable  that  Archie  should  suspect 
Betty's  identity. 

"No  woman  is  really  cold,"  said  Archie.  "I  dare  say 
she  is  merely  a  consummate  little  hypocrite." 

"She  is  not  a  hypocrite,"  Richard  retorted  hotly.  "She 
is  the  sweetest  and  purest  girl  imaginable.  She  is  so 
pure  that  she  cannot  even  comprehend  passion."  Even 


134         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

to  defend  Betty  to  this  man  was  to  pollute  her  and  the 
sacred  albeit  normal  love  he  felt  for  her. 

Archie  Telfer  once  more  sounded  the  famous  fifty- 
dollar-a-week  laugh. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "the  whole  trouble  lies  with 
you.  Man  is  the  player,  woman  the  instrument,  as  a 
clever  writer  once  remarked.  Your  passion  has  swept 
you  off  your  feet.  Even  icebergs  can  be  made  to  melt, 
though  whether  at  a  thousand  or  two  Celcius  or  Fahren- 
heit I  cannot  say.  But  the  feat  of  thawing  a  cold 
woman  does  not  lie  in  the  actual  temperature  of  the 
man's  love  so  much  as  in  the  judicious,  pyrotechnical 
display  he  makes  of  it." 

"What  a  disgusting  materialist  you  are!" 

"Thanks,  I  am.  I  glory  in  being  just  that.  I  can 
parallel  my  last  remark  by  an  example  in  acting.  Poor 
actors  declare  they  feel  every  emotion  they  portray. 
The  clever  actor  never  permits  himself  to  feel  while 
acting.  With  him  acting  is  a  matter  of  intelligence, 
warmed  and  tinctured  by  the  memory  of  restrained  feel- 
ings, not  by  feelings  themselves." 

"You  haven't  any  more  heart  than  a  stone." 

"Quite  true.  But  now  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I,  ma- 
terialist or  sensualist,  whichever  you  called  me,  am 
more  controlled  than  yourself.  I  can  win  any  woman 
by  an  infallible  method,  while  you  can  not.  Whether 
in  love  with  her  or  not,  I  control  my  real  emotions  so 
admirably  that  I  impress  her  merely  with  the  delicacy 
of  love,  not  with  its  grossness." 

"In  other  words,  you  merely  act  as  if  you  were  on 
the  stage." 

"If  you  like,  call  it  that.  At  any  rate,  I  never  offend 
a  woman  by  too  openly  displaying  my  emotions." 

Richard   rose   from   his  chair   and   strode   excitedly 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         135' 

through  the  room.  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair 
nervously  again  and  again. 

"I  wonder  if  it  was  that,"  he  said  suddenly,  speaking 
to  himself  rather  than  to  Archie.  "I  wonder  if  it  was 
that." 

"Look  here,  Pryce,  I  would  like  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion. Are  you  still  a  Joseph,  or  in  the  interim  since  I 
last  saw  you,  have  you  perchance  lost  your  virtue?" 

Richard  crimsoned  angrily. 

"Your  question  is  outrageous,"  he  said.  "I  have  told 
you  I  do  not  know  how  many  times  that  to  me  purity 
is  as  essential  in  a  man  as  in  a  woman.  There  is  no 
reason  why  a  man  should  go  scot  free  for  committing 
the  offense  which  brands  a  woman  as  a  pariah." 

"Hear!  Hear!"  Archie  held  his  cigarette  between 
his  lips,  and  having  freed  his  hand  from  its  incum- 
brance,  applauded  vigorously.  Flushing,  Richard  sat 
down  and  stared  at  Archie  sullenly. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Archie  continued,  "if  I  could  only 
bring  you  to  realize  how  ridiculous  and  untenable  is 
your  position.  If  you  intended  running  as  simple  a 
mechanism  as  a  steam  launch,  you  would  first  try  to 
gain  a  little  experience  of  its  contraptions.  Yet  you 
intend  plunging  headlong  into  matrimony.  It  is  reck- 
less, Richard,  really  reckless !" 

Richard  stared  at  the  other  in  mute  disapproval.  His 
signal  lack  of  poise,  due  to  the  demoralized  condition 
of  his  nervous  system,  made  him  utterly  incapable  of 
coping  with  the  brilliant  though  shallow  sophistry  of 
this  Adonis  of  the  stage. 

"Look  here,  Pryce,"  Archie  went  on,  "I  have  an  in- 
vitation to  go  out  of  town  on  a  twenty- four  hours' 
cruise  down  the  bay  on  a  private  yacht.  I  know  the 
chap  who  invited  me  well  enough  to  ask  to  bring  a 


136         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

friend.  Will  you  come?  It's  a  stag-party — but  there 
will  be  ladies,  and  they  will  all  be  good-lookers." 

Richard  looked  at  the  other  uncomprehendingly. 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked.  "A  stag- 
party — and  ladies?" 

"Yes,  Simple  Simon,  just  so.  The  married  men  are 
not  bringing  their  marriage  licenses,  their  wedding  rings 
or  their  wives." 

Richard  rose,  white  to  the  lips. 

"You  hound,"  he  said.  "If  you  weren't  the  old  man's 
son  I'd  throw  you  out." 

Archie  Telfer  merely  laughed.  The  sonorous,  beau- 
tiful timbred  laugh  echoed  and  re-echoed  through  the 
long,  narrow  main  floor.  He  laughed  twice  the  length 
of  the  period  prescribed  by  the  fifty-dollar-a-week 
gauge.  The  gallery  goddesses  raised  their  eyes  in  mute 
ecstasy. 

Having  artistically  rounded  out  that  classic  laugh, 
Archie  rose. 

"I  bear  you  no  ill-will,  Pryce,"  he  said.  "Lunatics 
should  be  treated  compassionately.  I  will  even  do  you 
a  good  turn.  I'll  give  you  an  object  lesson  in  love- 
making.  Introduce  me  to  your  divinity,  and  I'll  lay 
you  a  wager  of  five  ponies  that  I'll  contrive  a  way  of 
thawing  her." 

"You  cur,"  said  Richard,  between  clenched  teeth. 

Archie  Telfer  rose,  smiling. 

"What  an  ungracious  little  boy,"  he  said  in  an  indul- 
gent tone,  as  if  addressing  a  child.  Then,  aggrievedly: 
"I  am  a  man  of  honor,  Richard.  I  never  encroach 
on  another  man's  preserves,  especially  when  I  have 
so  many  more  rabbits  than  he  within  my  own  com- 
pound." 

He  opened  the  door. 

"Since  you  refuse  to  introduce  me,"  he  said,  "I  will 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         137 

introduce  myself.  You  had  better  stop  pouting  and 
come  out  and  watch  me." 

Betty  had  come  down  from  the  gallery  and  had 
seated  herself  at  the  piano.  Beside  her,  on  the  bench, 
lay  several  sheets  of  new  music,  which  she  had  brought 
with  her  to  play  for  herself  before  playing  them  for 
prospective  purchasers.  She  was  running  her  fingers 
over  the  piano,  trying  this  scale  and  that,  to  limber  up 
her  fingers  before  essaying  the  difficult  music  before 
her.  It  was  program  music — a  sonata  entitled  "Good 
Friday,"  and  as  she  played  the  austerely  beautiful  open- 
ing bar  and  broke  into  the  first  theme,  vibrant  with  re- 
ligious fervor,  Richard,  standing  behind  Archie  Telfer, 
thrilled  to  the  finger  tips  with  reverent  love  for  the  girl 
who  had  promised  to  be  his  wife.  She  looked  very 
lovely  sitting  there  in  the  somber  half-light  of  the 
cavernous  long  store,  under  the  one  electric  light  which 
she  had  turned  on  to  light  the  music  she  was  reading. 
Her  mourning  heightened  her  pallor  and  helped  weave 
the  illusive  vision  that  she  was  a  religious  devotee.  For 
a  moment  Richard  forgot  Archie  Telfer.  Then  he  re- 
membered him  overwhelmingly. 

The  Adonis  of  the  Stage  was  attitudinizing  shame- 
lessly. He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  above  his  stick. 
The  handsome  head  was  bowed,  as  if  in  unconscious 
reverence.  The  bright  dark  eyes  gazed  meditatively  at 
the  young  girl,  their  very  expression  denoting  a  kindly 
veneration.  It  was  a  piece  of  superb  acting,  and  Rich- 
ard, knowing  the  man  was  rotten  to  the  core,  felt 
hatred  boiling*  up  in  himself.  At  the  moment  Richard 
harked  back  for  untold  generations.  He  became  the 
primitive  man — the  cave-man,  the  man  who  knew  no 
rule  save  that  of  club  and  spear  and  fang.  He  could 
have  committed  murder  at  the  moment,  had  a  weapon 
been  at  hand. 


138         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Betty  stopped  playing.  Blinded  by  the  light,  and 
seeing  the  figure  of  a  man  at  her  side,  she  mistook 
Archie  for  a  customer. 

Rising,  she  asked:   "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Archie  in  his  resonant  act- 
ing voice.  No  one  who  had  ever  heard  that  voice  and 
that  tone,  "the  ideal  love-making  voice,"  according  to 
Archie's  press-agent,  ever  forgot  it.  Betty  started. 

"I  have  asked  Richard  to  introduce  me,  and  he,  sel- 
fish dog,  has  refused.  So  I  am  forced  to  introduce  my- 
self. I  am  Archibald  Telfer." 

"Oh,  indeed !" 

Never  in  all  her  life  had  Betty  felt  quite  so  foolish. 
Being  a  young  girl  and  human,  she  could  not  help  being 
somewhat  flurried  at  thus  suddenly  seeing  the  beau 
ideal  of  matinee  girldom  at  close  range,  standing  before 
her  in  a  position  denoting  humble  admiration. 

"I  think  Richard  was  a  little  afraid  that  I  would 
continue  with  you  a  conversation  I  had  begun  with 
him." 

Betty  laughed  helplessly.  Archie  Telfer  was  a  type 
of  man  she  had  never  met  before,  and  his  very  pres- 
ence made  her  vaguely  uneasy.  Certainly  he  was  good 
to  look  at,  and  his  pulsing  baritone  was  the  most  musi- 
cal speaking  voice  she  had  ever  heard.  But  he  made 
her  uneasy.  She  felt  an  instinctive  distrust  of  him. 

"I  was  telling  Richard,"  Archie  continued,  nothing 
daunted  by  her  diffidence,  "that  some  day  when  I  have 
time — perhaps  next  summer — I  shall  give  a  series  of; 
lectures  under  the  title,  'Advice  to  the  Inept  Lovelorn/ 

You  see,  Miss "  he  stopped,  looked  at  Betty  softly 

and  caressingly,  and  his  voice  was  enticingly  tender,  a$ 
he  said  after  a  brief  pause : 

"You  haven't  handed  me  your  card  in  return  fot 
mine." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         139 

"My  name  is  Garside,"  said  Betty  stiffly. 

"You  see,  Miss  Garside,  I  honestly  believe  that  many 
a  capital  chap  has  failed  to  win  the  woman  he  loves 
because  his  wooing  was  so  clumsy." 

"I  suppose  that  is  true,"  Betty  conceded. 

"And  many  a  woman  has  failed  to  capture  the  man 
she  loved  because  she  was  a  careless  fisherwoman." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  nicer  to  assume  that  the  man  is  al- 
ways the  captor?"  Betty  was  alarmed  at  the  sound  of 
her  own  voice,  and  at  the  temerity  she  displayed  in 
taking  an  active  part  in  the  conversation.  She  was 
dimly  aware  also  that  Miss  Sharpe  and  Miss  Connors 
must  be  craning  their  necks  in  envious  curiosity. 

"Not  at  all.  To  realize  how  much  prettier  it  is  to 
assume  that  the  woman  is  the  captor  and  not  the  cap- 
tive, you  must  try  to  visualize  an  allegorical  painting 
showing  both  phases,  and  done,  let  us  say,  in  Alma 
Tadema  or  Burne- Jones  style.  Picture,  then,  the  fol- 
lowing :  A  man  kneeling  before  a  woman,  he  bound  in 
garlands  made  of  violets  and  roses,  sweet  and  effective 
symbols  of  the  feminine  daintiness  and  charm  that  be- 
witches man.  The  reverse  picture  is  not  as  pleasing. 
'A  man  leading  a  woman  loaded  down  with  heavy  chains 
of  jeweled  gold,  emblems  of  the  heavy,  clodhopper 
means  the  average  man  resorts  to  in  courtship  in  order 
to  cover  up  his  own  meager  intellectual  and  personal 
charms." 

Betty  was  struck  by  his  cleverness,  but  her  uneasiness 
increased.  He  was  so  big  and  handsome  and  mascu- 
line. She  wished  to  think  of  something  to  reply,  of 
some  clever  answer  to  make,  and  yet  she  realized  that 
it  would  be  wiser  to  terminate  the  conversation  at  once. 
She  found  herself  fancying  that,  to  a  girl  whose  affec- 
tions were  not  engaged  elsewhere,  Archie  Telfer  might 
become  enormously  dangerous. 


140         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Besides,"  Archie  Telfer  continued,  "if  we  happen  to 
be  disciples  of  Bernard  Shaw,  we  must  believe  with 
him  that  woman  is  the  pursuer,  man  the  pursued." 

"That  is  perfectly  odious,"  said  Betty,  not  hiding  her 
disgust. 

"I  suppose  the  thought  put  that  baldly  does  sound 
offensive,"  Archie  said,  speaking  in  a  voice  light  and 
crisp  as  thistledown.  "At  any  rate,  I  am  going  to  give 
my  lectures  serious  thought." 

"They  will  attract  large  audiences,"  said  Betty. 

"That,  of  course,  will  be  a  new  experience  for  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Betty  said,  laughing.  Suddenly 
she  felt  at  ease  with  him,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
looked  him  squarely  between  the  eyes.  Decidedly  he 
was  handsome,  quite  overwhelmingly,  aggressively  hand- 
some. 

"If  we  believe  the  comic  operas,  there  are  as  many 
different  kinds  of  kisses  as  there  are  species  of  bac- 
teria. But  no  one  has  as  yet  thought  of  scientifically 
classifying  them.  That  shall  be  my  task." 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  can  do  it,"  said  Betty. 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  an  expert,  not  merely  on  paper 
or  on  the  stage." 

Betty  blushed.  Archie  Telfer  tucked  the  smile  occa- 
sioned by  Betty's  blush  into  one  corner  of  his  mouth, 
where  it  was  all  but  invisible,  and  continued  in  the  same 
strain. 

"And  then  there  are  glances.  An  adept  can  express 
so  much  in  a  glance.  Do  you  sing,  Miss  Garside  ?" 

"A  little,"  Betty  answered,  wondering  at  the  question. 

"Well,  then,  you  know  that  in  singing,  as  in  elocu- 
tion, we  must  learn  to  modulate  the  voice,  to  get  com- 
plete control  of  it.  In  acting  we  must  learn  facial  con- 
trol as  well  as  vocal  control,  and  the  expert  actor  refines 
on  this  as  much  as  he  pleases  and  can." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         141 

"I  see." 

"Now  the  average  lover  knows  how  to  control  his 
voice.  Everyday  life  teaches  him  that.  But  does  he 
know  how  to  make  his  glances  a  vehicle  of  expression  ?" 

"Some  men  do,  don't  they?" 

"Some,  but  only  a  few.  There  are  seven  kinds  of 
glances." 

"Seven?" 

"The  glance  of  greeting,  the  glance  offensive,  the 
glance  provocative,  the  glance  of  challenge,  the  glance 
affectionate,  the  glance  caressing,  the  glance  posses- 
sive." 

"Goodness,  that's  very  interesting."  Betty  was  in- 
finitely entertained  and  guileless  enough  to  show  it. 

"Now  let  me  see  whether  you  can  guess  which  is 
which." 

He  glanced  cursorily  at  Betty,  lifting  his  hat. 

"The  glance  of  greeting,"  he  said. 

It  was  so  obviously  that  that  Betty,  to  pay  him  back 
for  his  tripping  her  before,  said: 

"I  thought  it  was  the  glance  provocative." 

"Ah,  no,  you  didn't."  He  quickly  changed  his  atti- 
tude and  regarded  her  with  an  air  so  impertinent  that 
she  longed  to  box  his  ears.  He  was  very  clever,  to  be 
sure! 

In  quick  succession  he  illustrated  the  various  glances, 
all  except  the  glance  caressing,  throwing  so  much  hu- 
mor into  his  acting  that  Betty  laughed  heartily  more 
than  once.  Then  he  said: 

"The  glance  caressing  I  dare  not  illustrate  with  your- 
self as  the  objective,  because  Richard  is  within  arm's 
length.  Richard,"  he  called,  "where  are  you?  Come 
here,  you  unamiable  scamp,  and  perceive  that  I  have 
not  yet  kidnapped  Miss  Garside." 

The    "unamiable   dog"    was   bending   over   a   newly 


142         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Opened  box  of  music,  and  was  sorting  it.  He  growled 
out  an  unintelligible  answer,  and  went  on  with  hi§ 
work. 

Archie  Telfer  laughed. 

"I  would  classify  kisses  in  the  same  way — only  there 
are  not  seven  or  fifty-seven,  but  at  least  seventy-seven 
different  varieties  of  kisses." 

"Seventy-seven?"  Betty  asked  incredulously.  "Dp 
enumerate  them." 

"No,  no,  not  with  that  volcano  back  of  me  ready  to 
envelop  me  in  brimstone  and  ashes  at  the  least  intima- 
tion of  anything  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  simply  dare 
not." 

Betty  hated  herself  for  laughing.  Richard's  ears, 
which  alone  were  visible,  as  he  was  stooping  over  the 
box,  were  a  bright  pink.  She  wanted  to  call  out,  "Dicky, 
dear,  come  here ;  you  are  missing  a  lot  of  fun,"  or  some 
other  simple,  everyday,  commonplace  little  thing  that 
would  establish  their  footing  in  Archie  Telfer's  eyes. 
But  she  couldn't.  She  was  not  yet  sufficiently  at  ease 
in  the  effulgent  presence  of  Archie  Telfer.  She  turned 
to  him.  She  meant  to  reprove  him,  and  thoroughly  be- 
lieved she  was  doing  it,  when  she  asked: 

"Are  you  really  going  to  illustrate  the  seventy-seven 
varieties  of  kisses  on  the  stage,  when  you  cannot  illus- 
trate them  in  private?" 

Archie  Telfer  came  a  step  nearer  to  Betty,  and  be- 
stowed upon  her  the  glance  sixth  in  order  as  enumer- 
ated by  himself,  the  glance  which  before  he  had  pro- 
fessed not  to  illustrate  because  of  fear  of  Richard.  He 
allowed  his  eyes  to  linger  and  to  caress,  and  then,  in  the 
softest  of  tones,  he  said: 

"We  can  sometimes  explain  things  when  a  lot  of 
folks  are  present  which  are  dangerous  to  speak  about 
when  we  are  alone.  Besides,  while  I  could  illustrate 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         143 

the  glances  by  myself,  I  need  some  one  to  receive  my 
illustrations  of  the  seventy-seven  varieties." 

Betty  blushed  furiously,  and  was  furious  with  her- 
self for  blushing,  furious  also  for  having  made  the 
absurd  remark  which  afforded  Archie  Telfer  the  op- 
portunity of  being  impertinent.  She  wanted  to  rebuke 
him,  but  did  not  know  how. 

Archie  Telfer  meanwhile  had  tucked  his  stick  under 
his  arm  in  approved  stage  fashion,  and  was  drawing  a 
card  from  a  silver-cornered  leather  cardcase. 

"I'll  be  grateful  to  you  for  seeing  my  father  gets 
this,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  card.  Betty  had  risen, 
with  the  intention  of  placing  the  same  on  Mr'.  Telfer's 
desk  in  his  private  room.  Archie  Telfer  began  to  walk 
toward  the  door,  while  he  continued  to  speak.  Betty, 
willy-nilly,  was  forced  to  walk  along  in  order  to  hear 
what  he  said.  Archie  threw  Richard,  fuming  and  red, 
a  killing  look  of  triumph  as  Betty,  wholly  unconscious 
of  the  little  comedy  weaving  itself  about  her,  walked 
along  at  Archie's  side. 

"I  really  don't  know  whether  I  am  right  in  troubling 
you,"  he  said.  "You're  my  father's  private  secretary, 
aren't  you?"  he  asked,  although  he  knew  perfectly  well 
she  was  not. 

"Mr.  Telfer's  secretary  is  away  for  a  week,"  Betty 
replied,  "and  I  am  trying  to  write  the  few  letters  that 
go  out  from  Mr.  Telfer's  private  office  for  him  on  the 
machine,  so,  in  a  fashion,  I  suppose  I  may  describe  my- 
self as  acting  secretary." 

"You  succeed,  of  course?" 

"Your  father  is  indulgent  enough  to  say  I  do." 

Archie  Telfer  glanced  at  her.  He  was  quick  at  divin- 
ing character.  He  liked  her  aristocratic  way  of  carry- 
ing herself,  and  the  pure,  well-modeled  profile,  with  its 
mass  of  black  hair,  the  tiny  tendrils  climbing1  away  from 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ebony  billows.  He  liked  her  gentle  way  of  speaking 
and  her  indifferent  manner. 

He  was  just  a  little  tired  of  women  with  tempera- 
ment. He  had  no  idea  of  engaging  in  a  serious  flirtation 
with  this  slim,  dark-eyed,  dark-haired  girl,  but  he  im- 
agined that  it  would  be  pleasant  and  soothing,  a  great 
relief  from  his  troubles,  to  chat  occasionally  with  this 
suave  creature  in  whom  the  eternal  feminine  was  so 
well  kept  in  the  background, — in  which  it  seemed  a  mere 
external  quality,  and  in  no  way  a  perpetual  challenge, 
as  in  so  many  women,  to  his  own  masculinity. 

To  make  her  speak,  he  inquired : 

"What  do  you  do  here  as  a  rule?" 

"Oh,  I  play  new  music, — songs,  dances,  sonatas,  and 
old  music,  too,  for  that  matter,  for  prospective  pur- 
chasers." Then  swiftly,  quoting  from  the  firm's  adver- 
tising booklet,  she  added :  "A  purchase  of  five  dollars 
entitles  purchaser  to  have  one  of  Telfer's  expert  pianists 
play  any  desired  selection  for  the  period  of  a  half- 
hour;  a  purchase  of  ten  dollars  entitles  purchaser  to 
have  one  of  Telfer's  expert  pianists  play  any  desired 
selection  for  the  period  of  an  hour;  and  a  purchase  of 
twenty-five  dollars  entitles  purchaser  to  have  one  of 
Telfer's  expert  pianists  call  at  purchaser's  residence  to 
play  any  desired  selection  for  any  length  of  time." 

"A  very  easy  way,  I  should  say,  of  getting  a  delight- 
ful young  lady  to  call  on  one,"  Archie  retorted,  laughing. 

Betty  did  not  know  whether  to  take  this  as  an  imper- 
tinence or  not.  Wisely,  she  decided  to  ignore  the  sally. 
Certainly,  Mr.  Telfer's  son  presented  undreamed  of  con- 
versational vistas.  But  he  worried  her  subtly.  She  felt 
very  much  as  a  paralyzed  man  feels  at  whose  feet  a 
cannon  fire-cracker  has  suddenly  fallen,  and  of  which  it 
is  impossible  to  say  whether  it  is  lighted  or  not. 

"If  you  are   a  musician,"   Archie   Telfer  continued 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         145 

easily,  "it  will  interest  you  to  know  that  we  had  several 
celebrities  of  the  musical  world  aboard  the  steamer. 
Caruso,  Sembrich,  Direktor  Markheim  of  the  Metro- 
politan Opera.  Has  he  been  here  yet?" 

"No — that  is — I  don't  know.    I  have  never  seen  him." 

"You  would  have  been  told  by  some  one  that  it  was 
he.  He  and  my  esteemed  parent  are  great  cronies. 
Father  thinks  Markheim  couldn't  run  the  opera  com- 
pany without  him  and  his  advice.  And  Markheim  is 
just  as  fat  as  my  father.  Their  mutual  affliction  of  being 
overweights  further  cements  their  friendship.  Wait  till 
you  see  them  ambling  through  the  store  side  by  side. 
There  won't  be  room  left  on  either  side  of  them  for  a 
sheet  of  paper.  Then  there  was  Earlcote,  Stanley  Earl- 
cote." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Who  is You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  never 

heard  of  Stanley  Earlcote,  the  most  picturesque  per- 
sonality of  the  twentieth  century?" 

"I  confess  my  ignorance  with  shame." 

"Well,  if  reports  are  to  be  credited,  he  is — or  was — 
the  most  wonderful  pianist  that  ever  lived." 

"Is,  or  was?"  queried  Betty.  "You  speak  as  if  he 
were  dead." 

"Worse  than  dead — disabled  by  being  trampled  upon 
by  the  pet  elephant  of  the  Gaekwar  of  Hajaputani, 
which  had  broken  away  from  his  mahout.  Earlcote 
had  spent  three  years  in  India  at  the  Court  of  the  Gaek- 
war, and  during  those  three  years  all  personages  of 
consequence  that  heard  him,  from  the  Viceroy  of  India 
to  the  Crown  Prince  of  Germany,  vied  with  each  other 
in  trumpeting  his  fame  through  Europe,  so  that  his 
return  to  civilized  parts  was  looked  forward  to  with 
hysterical  excitement  in  musical  circles.  A  week  be- 
fore his  projected  return  the  accident  happened.  The 


146         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

pet  elephant  trampled  upon  Earlcote,  injuring  his  spine, 
mutilating  his  hands,  making  the  career  to  which  he 
had  looked  forward  to,  and  which  would  have  been  a 
career  of  unexampled  triumph,  impossible." 

Archie  Telfer  made  a  rhetorical  pause. 

"How  horrible,"  exclaimed  Betty. 

"The  Gaekwar,  heartbroken  by  the  accident  which 
had  overtaken  his  favorite,  loaded  him  down  with  gifts 
of  Oriental  splendor  and  richness.  Stanley  Earlcote 
is  fabulously  wealthy,  and  it  is  said  that  he  owes  his 
tremendous  fortune  to  the  Gaekwar,  who,  among  other 
.treasures,  presented  him  with  the  Kasi-nook." 

"And  what  is  the  Kasi-nook?"  Betty  inquired. 

'"The  Kasi-nook  is  the  largest  and  most  beautiful 
black  opal  in  existence.  Earlcote  wears  it  continually 
as  a  watch-charm.  A  superstition  attaches  to  the  gem." 

"Does  it  bring  bad  luck?" 

"It  is  said  to.  This  is  the  verse  all  the  papers  printed 
at  the  time  the  Gaekwar  presented  Earlcote  with  the 
gem,  some  four  years  ago: 

"Honestly  come  by 

Fortune  and  joy 
And  health  it  will  buy. 
Dishonestly  come  by 

Health,  wealth  and  joy, 
It  will  surely  destroy." 

"What  an  extraordinary  story.  Is  he  an  Englishman 
or  an  American?" 

"An  American — Bostonian.  However,  there  is  a  ru- 
mor extant  that  his  mother  was  a  descendant  of  one 
of  the  famous  New  Orleans  octoroons,  the  women  who 
were  famous  for  their  beauty  and  infamous  in  charac- 
ter, and  who  flourished  in  the  old  quarter  in  New  Or- 
leans for  generations  before  the  Civil  War." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         147 

Betty's  face  expressed  scornful  disdain. 

"Of  course  this  is  merely  a  rumor,"  Archie  Telfer 
continued  easily.  "The  papers,  of  course,  have  avidly 
seized  upon  the  story  of  his  doubtful  antecedents.  If 
it  is  true  that  Earlcote  has  negro  blood  in  his  veins,  it 
would  explain  his  marvelously  temperamental  playing." 

"You  have  heard  him  play?" 

"No,  but  I  have  read  volumes  about  it.  While  on 
board  several  ladies  begged  him  to  play,  but  he  refused, 
pleading  that  he  endured  agonies  after  playing.  A  few 
days  later  a  concert  was  given  to  aid  some  steerage 
passengers  who  were  sufferers  from  a  flood.  Earlcote 
was  again  asked  to  play,  and  again  refused.  One  of 
the  coal  barons  was  on  board,  and  commissioned  some 
ladies  to  tell  Earlcote  that  he  offered  to  contribute  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  the  fund  they  were  raising,  if  Earl- 
cote would  consent  to  play  Chopin's  two  line  prelude." 

"Did  he  play  it?" 

"No,  he  refused  again." 

"He  cannot  be  very  charitable,"  Betty  said  sternly. 
"Surely,  if  he  is  able  to  play  at  all,  the  pain  he  suffers 
in  consequence  cannot  be  so  intense  as  to  warrant  a 
refusal  of  that  sort." 

Archie  Telfer  laughed. 

"You  haven't  heard  all.  Earlcote's  refusal  was 
tendered  in  a  way  no  king  could  have  bettered.  He 
wrote  out  a  check  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  and 
handed  that  to  the  two  ladies." 

"What  an  extraordinary  man !  How  does  he  look  ? 
Does  he  show  his  mixed  blood?" 

"He  is  not  as  dark  as  a  Spaniard  or  a  Mexican,  but 
his  eyes  have  a  strange  fire.  As  to  his  l^oks — well, 
should  you  ever  meet  him,  you  had  better  be  careful; 
you  might  fall  in  love  with  him." 

Betty  drew  back  startled.    The  introduction  of  pointed 


148         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

remarks  into  an  impersonal  talk  was  a  conversational 
phase  for  which  her  limited  experience  with  men  had 
not  prepared  her.  Her  eyes  looked  troubled.  Archie 
said  blandly : 

"He  is  so  very,  very  ugly,  you  know — and  it  is  oppo- 
sites  that  attract." 

The  troubled  look  in  Betty's  eyes  deepened.  She  was 
not  clever  in  talk  with  strangers,  and  she  did  not  know 
how  to  reply  to  Archie  Telfer. 

"Besides,  Miss  Garside,"  he  continued  suavely,  "it  is 
a  well-known  fact  that  extreme  ugliness,  grotesque  ugli- 
ness, can  exert  a  great  fascination." 

"It  would  never  fascinate  me,"  said  Betty.  "I  love 
beauty.  I  know,  of  course,  that  the  modern  ideal  of  art 
is  to  portray  character  in  painting  and  sculpture  instead 
of  classical  beauty,  but  in  that  respect  I  am  hopelessly 
old-fashioned  and  out  of  date,  for  I  love  beauty." 

"An  Adonis,  then,  is  more  to  your  taste  than  a  Cali- 
ban?" 

Betty  was  about  to  reply  in  the  affirmative  when 
she  remembered  that  Archie's  cognomen  was  the  Adonis 
of  the  Stage.  Her  lips  closed  and  the  color  in  her 
cheek  deepened.  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  felt  so 
uncomfortable.  As  has  been  said  before,  she  was  not 
clever  in  conversation — dreamers  usually  lack  the  acute 
sense  of  timeliness  that  makes  for  conversational 
prowess,  but  she  felt  blindly  that  she  must  make  some 
retort. 

"In  sculpture,  by  all  means." 

"In  flesh  and  blood?" 

This  was  intolerable  of  him.  She  replied,  showing 
some  spirit: 

"I  prefer  some  defect — good-looking  men,  they  tell 
me,  are  unbelievably  conceited."  She  flushed  a  little, 
having  sped  her  arrow. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         149 

Archie  Telfer  laughed.  He  was  a  good  sportsman, 
and  could  take  a  blow  without  losing  his  temper. 

"I'll  have  to  tell  Richard  that,"  he  said  slyly.  "Do 
you  think  it  will  please  him?" 

So  Archie  Telfer  knew !  Betty  heaved  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief. She  felt  as  if  the  name  "Richard"  could  conjure 
away  all  impending  ill. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  laughing.  "Dicky's  nose  isn't 
quite  straight.  I  love  him  for  it." 

"Contradictory,  like  all  women,"  sighed  Archie,  "and 
not  ashamed  to  tell  one  man  that  you  love  another." 

"Not  merely  not  ashamed,  but  proud,"  Betty  retorted, 
chin  in  air. 

Archie  put  out  his  hand  and  Betty  extended  hers. 

"I  envy  Richard,"  declared  Archie  enviously.  His 
face  was  the  mirror  of  every  manly  virtue  as  he  added : 

"What  wouldn't  I  give  to  have  a  sweet,  pure  little 
girl  like  you  love  me?" 

"Unless  your  press  agent  invents  all  the  stories  one 
reads,"  Betty  said,  laughing,  "there  is  no  dearth  of  little 
girls  for  you  to  choose  from." 

"My  press  agent,"  Archie  retorted  gracefully,  "is  at 
times  an  unconscionable  liar."  He  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"Sometimes,  again,  he  tells  the  truth.  He  will  soon 
print  an  extravagant  story  of  three  women  who  are 
quarreling  about  the  privilege  of  becoming  my  wife." 

"Oh !"    Betty  was  reduced  to  a  monosyllable. 

Archie  Telfer  simulated  embarrassment,  as,  with 
downcast  eyes,  he  poked  his  stick  at  the  door,  for  they 
had  reached  the  front  of  the  store  by  this  time,  and 
were  standing  in  full  view  of  the  street. 

"A  woman  as  sweet  and  pure  as  yourself,  Miss  Gar- 
side,"  he  said,  "is  unable  to  comprehend  the  machina- 
tions to  which  some  women  will  descend.  You  must 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  never,  never  did  I  make 


150         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

love  to  any  one  of  those  three  women,  and  yet  each  one 
claims  that  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  Why,  Miss  Gar- 
side,"  Archie  Telfer  walked  back  a  few  steps,  and  sit- 
ting down  on  one  of  the  small  tables  on  which  was 
displayed  new  sheet  music,  gracefully  beat  a  tattoo  with 
his  stick  against  a  comely  small  foot  encased  in  faultless 
patent  leather,  "I  never  made  love  to  them  any  more 
than  I  am  making  love  to  you  just  now !  And  yet  they 
claim  that  I  wanted  to  marry  them.  As  if  I  would  be 
likely  to  care  for  flirting  and  love-making!"  He  sighed 
deeply,  as  if  saddened  by  the  turpitude  of  womankind. 
"Think  of  the  love-making  /  have  got  to  get  through 
with  on  the  stage  eight  times  a  week  through  the  season, 
and  then  ask  yourself  whether  I  would  care  to  make 
love  and  flirt  off  the  stage  as  well." 

Betty  laughed.  Innocent  as  she  was,  she  was  not 
simple  enough  to  be  duped  by  Archie's  lachrymose  man- 
ner. She  was  infinitely  entertained,  and  her  amusement 
had  a  double  edge,  for  she  was  amused  both  by  the  man 
and  by  the  actor. 

Archie  gracefully  withdrew  from  the  table  on  which 
he  had  been  sitting. 

"I  almost  feel,"  he  said,  "like  disappointing  all  three 
by  going  off  and  marrying  someone  else — some  sweet 
little  girl,  you  know." 

His  glances  conveyed  very  plainly  which  sweet  little 
girl  he  had  in  view  for  the  distinction  to  be  conferred. 
It  was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  such  colossal  impu- 
dence. Betty  laughed,  and  holding  up  the  card  he  had 
given  her  before,  she  concluded : 

"I  will  see  your  father  receives  this  as  soon  as  he 
gets  in." 

Turning,  without  giving  him  a  chance  to  say  more, 
she  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  store,  and  after  placing 
the  card  on  Mr.  Telfer's  desk,  entered  Richard's  private 
office. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         151 

A  curious  weakness  of  humanity  makes  the  recipient 
of  a  compliment,  although  realizing  the  insincerity  of 
the  compliment,  feel  buoyant  and  satisfied  with  the 
world  in  general.  Betty,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
was  in  love  with  her  Richard,  was  no  exception  to  the 
general  rule. 

"Oh,  Dicky,"  she  said,  "isn't  he  handsome?" 

Richard  did  not  look  up  from  his  desk. 

"And  what  a  wonderful  speaking  voice  he  has." 

No  answer,  but  the  papers  on  Dicky's  desk  were  in 
wild,  fluttering  commotion. 

"And  Dicky,  how  gracefully  he  expressed  himself." 

Richard's  right  hand  plowed  its  remorseless  way 
through  his  hair.  He  rose,  and  stood  confronting  Betty, 
looking  very  pale  and  handsome  and  boyish. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "he's  the  worst  man  in  New  York." 

"Really?" 

Perhaps  no  other  word  in  the  English  language,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  can  be  used  to  better  purpose 
in  tantalizing  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed  than 
this  expletive.  Richard  choked  with  mortification  and 
jealousy. 

"Betty,  you're  not,  you're  not " 

"Not  what ?"  Then  she  understood  and  laughed. 

"You  deliciously  silly,  Dicky.  Sit  down  this  moment, 
and  let  me  hold  the  little  mirror  you  keep  in  your  desk 
for  you,  so  you  can  brush  your  hair." 

"Bother  my  hair." 

"Dicky,  how  abysmally,  ridiculously  absurd  you  can 
be.  Don't  you  know  you  are  the  only  person  who  exists 
for  me  in  the  wide  world?" 

"Doesn't  seem  like  it,"  Richard  growled. 

"Dicky,  you  know  you  are  my  'inexpressive  he,'  don't 


you 


"The  trouble  is,"  he  snapped,  "I  do  not  believe  I  am 
your  'he'  at  all." 


152         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Richard,  what  do  you  mean  now?" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "I  could  make  plain  to  you  what 
I  mean.  But  you  wouldn't  understand.  You're  in- 
capable, I  think,  of  judging.  A  man  to  be  perfect  in 
your  eyes  would  have  to  be  a  disembodied  spirit." 

Betty  became  very  serious.  She  shrank  away  from 
Richard's  desk  where  she  had  been  standing. 

"I  thought  we  had  agreed  not  to  reopen  that  subject," 
she  said. 

"But  if  you  think  that  Archie  Telfer  is  a  disembodied 
spirit " 

Betty  stepped  forward  and  placed  her  hand  lightly 
on  the  young  man's  arm. 

"Hush,  Dicky,"  she  said  gravely,  "aren't  you  allowing 
a  fit  of  unjustifiable  jealousy  to  carry  you  too  far?" 

The  touch  of  her  cool,  sweet  fingers  sent  a  thrill 
through  him. 

"Look  here,  Betty,"  he  said  roughly,  "let's  continue 
this  'in  our  next.'  I  have  work  to  do.  And  I  imagine 
you  have,  too." 

"What  a  perfectly  charming  mood  you  are  in,  Rich- 
ard." 

Betty  went  to  the  door,  then  turned  once  more  to 
look  at  him.  She  hoped  that  he  would  call  her  back. 
She  was  temperamentally  incapable  of  harboring  anger 
for  any  length  of  time  against  any  one  whom  she  loved, 
and  it  hurt  her  to  think  of  leaving  him  in  this  frame 
of  mind.  But  he,  writing  with  feverish  haste,  paid  no 
attention  to  her.  She  marveled  at  his  concentration, 
and  it  hurt  her  to  think  he  could  go  back  to  his  work 
so  quickly  and  thoroughly  after  they  had  exchanged 
hasty  words.  Slowly  she  walked  back  to  him  and  stood 
at  the  side  of  his  desk  without  speaking.  Without  in- 
tention on  her  part,  her  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  the 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         153 

sheet  of  paper  over  which  his  pen  was  traveling  so 
rapidly.  He  had  not  been  writing  at  all, — he  had  merely 
been  drawing  his  pen  in  crude  scroll  work  across  the 
paper  with  the  evident  intention  of  giving  her  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  writing.  She  fell  back  guiltily. 
She  did  not  wish  to  humiliate  him  by  letting  him  see 
that  she  had  discovered  his  pretense.  And  yet,  intensely 
sorry  as  she  felt  for  him,  because  of  her  non-compre-* 
hension  of  the  nature  of  his  passion,  she  had  not  the 
remotest  notion  of  what  he  was  suffering. 

"Are  you  still  here,  Betty?" 

She  noticed  the  deep  blue  circles  under  his  eyes  as 
he  looked  up  at  her.  He  spoke  roughly.  Whole-heart- 
edly he  wished  her  out  of  the  room,  and  yet  he  knew 
that  the  moment  she  was  gone  he  would  wish  her  back. 
His  nerves  were  playing  him  strange  tricks  these  days. 

Regarding  him  earnestly,  she  remembered  that  he  had 
complained  of  sleeping  poorly. 

''Dicky,"  she  said  tenderly,  "you  know  you  have  prom- 
ised me  quite  a  number  of  times  to  go  and  consult  a 
doctor  about  your  insomnia.  Won't  you  go  to-night — 
before  you  come  home?" 

Her  gentleness  was  balm  to  his  quivering  nerves.  All 
his  resentment,  the  dull,  smoldering  rancor  which  he 
was  cherishing  against  her  because  she  had  talked  and 
laughed  with  Archie  Telfer  left  him.  He  was  ashamed 
of  his  churlishness  and  lack  of  self-control. 

"Very  well.  Betty,"  he  said  quietly.    "I'll  go  to-night." 

She  went  from  the  room  at  last,  and  burying  his  face 
in  his  hands,  he  abandoned  himself  for  a  few  moments 
to  the  sweep  of  his  feelings. 


CHAPTER   IX 

Richard  had  never  had  occasion  to  consult  a  physi- 
cian, and  he  was  forced  to  ask  the  cashier,  a  blond,  stout 
German-American  by  the  name  of  Hoffman,  for  ad- 
vice, and  with  the  name  and  address  of  a  reputable 
practitioner  in  his  pocketbook,  he  left  the  office  at  five 
o'clock.  It  was  almost  a  relief  for  him  to  leave  the 
office  without  Betty.  At  the  outset  of  his  courtship  he 
had  desired  her  society  incessantly,  but  of  late  the  close 
propinquity  in  which  their  lives  were  cast  was  becoming 
intolerably  irksome  to  him. 

The  physician  whom  he  consulted  was  a  business-like 
man  of  about  forty. 

"Since  when  have  you  been  sleeping  poorly?" 

"About  seven  weeks — two  months — something  like 
that." 

"Ever  suffer  from  insomnia  before?" 

"Never." 

"You  wear  no  glasses,  I  notice.  Sometimes  insomnia 
is  due  to  a  slight  astigmatism.  Any  headaches,  bilous- 
ness,  nausea?" 

"No,"  said  Richard,  "I  simply  cannot  sleep,  that  is 
all." 

Doctor  Moran  began  to  ask  more  intimate  questions. 
He  tested  Richard's  heart  and  lungs.  Finally  he  con- 
cluded : 

"You're  as  sound  as  a  nut.  A  little  nervous,  that's 
all.  I'll  give  you  a  sleeping  powder,  which  you  can 
take  whenever  you  need  it." 

154 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         155 

He  scribbled  the  prescription  upon  his  pad,  handed 
the  slip  of  paper  to  Richard,  and  escorted  him  to  the 
door.  The  door  was  already  half-open,  when  he  said : 

"By  the  way,  you  look  like  a  prosperous  young  man." 

Richard  smiled. 

"Fairly  prosperous." 

"Well,  doctors  sometimes  ask  questions  that  seem 
impertinent  but  are  merely  pertinent.  Are  you  prosper- 
ous enough  to  get  married?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"Perhaps  you  are  engaged?" 

"I  am." 

Doctor  Moran  opened  the  door  all  the  way.  The 
maid  who  sat  in  the  hall  rose  and  went  to  summon  the 
next  patient.  The  physician  laid  his  hand  upon  Rich- 
ard's shoulder  with  professional  familiarity. 

"My  advice  to  you,  Mr.  Pryce,"  he  said,  "is  to  marry. 
Marry  as  soon  as  you  can  and  your  nervousness  and 
insomnia  will  disappear.  Good-evening." 

Richard  was  furious.  He  wanted  to  retort  angrily, 
but  the  maid  was  already  appearing  with  the  next  pa- 
tient. Patient  and  physician  disappeared  into  the  doc- 
tor's office.  The  maid  held  open  the  street  door  for 
Richard,  and  he  found  himself  out  on  the  stoop. 

For  an  hour,  fury  at  high  tide,  he  tramped  the  streets. 
He  himself,  sparingly,  it  is  true,  had  allowed  himself  to 
think  with  longing  of  the  time  when  Betty  would  be 
his  wife.  But  Dr.  Moran,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  offered 
Betty,  without  knowing  her,  the  last  insult  in  recom- 
mending her  to  him  as  a  sort  of  pleasant  medicine,  a 
panacea  for  insomnia!  He  was  furious  with  himself 
for  having  been  so  stupid  as  not  to  divine  the  cause  of 
his  insomnia.  Last  of  all,  he  was  furious  with  Betty 
for  being  what  she  was — so  unsensual  and  devoid  of 
passion  that  to  a  decent-minded  man  marriage  to  her 


156          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

became  impossible  unless  by  some  wizardry  to  which 
Richard  did  not  hold  the  key  he  could  transform  her 
into  a  normal,  natural,  flesh-and-blood  woman. 

Finally  his  wrath  abated.  He  telephoned  home  to 
Mrs.  Presbey  not  to  wait  dinner  for  him;  then  he  went 
to  a  drug-store,  and  drank  a  cup  of  tomato  bouillon 
and  ate  a  chicken  sandwich  at  the  soda-water  fountain. 

After  that  he  went  for  another  walk  along  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  Great  White  Way. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  marry  Betty,  with- 
out entering  into  his  conjugal  rights,  trusting  to  the 
intimate  propinquity  that  necessarily  exists  between  two 
people  living  side  by  side  in  the  same  room  day  and 
night  to  bring  to  the  surface  Betty's  latent  womanhood. 
But  he  feared  to  put  his  plan  into  execution,  because 
he  did  not  trust  himself.  He  acutely  remembered  the 
night  which  he  had  spent  in  her  room  attending  her 
sprained  ankle  and  he  feared  that,  once  she  was  his 
wife  and  the  specter  of  degrading  her  to  the  plane  of 
vulgar  immorality  be  removed  as  a  deterrent,  he  would 
be  unable  to  carry  out  his  high  resolution. 

He  did  not  realize  that  what  Archie  Telfer  had  hinted 
at  was  true;  that  the  eyes  can  be  made  a  vehicle  of 
appeal,  the  hands  a  vehicle  of  eloquence  as  well  as  the 
mouth,  and  that  a  kiss  can  be  made  an  instrument  of 
almost  illimitable  allure  and  intimacy. 

He  became  contemplative.  He,  a  man,  who  passion- 
ately desired  the  woman  he  loved,  was  offended  by  the 
purely  natural  view  of  marriage  taken  by  the  physician. 
How  keenly,  then,  must  Betty  have  suffered  from  his 
insistence.  Betty,  who  was  so  deficient  in  womanhood 
that  the  very  word  "passion"  was  offensive  to  her.  It 
seemed  to  him  now  that  if  the  natural  view  of  marriage 
was  a  corrective  needed  for  Betty's  point  of  view,  the 
romantic  view  was  a  corrective  needed  more  urgently 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         157 

for  his  own  viewpoint.  He  accused  himself  of  having 
been  blatantly  raw  and  brutal  with  her.  He  realized 
poignantly  that  the  natural  ardor  of  the  lover  must  have 
appeared  to  her  as  grossness.  He  vowed  that  in  the 
future,  no  matter  what  suffering  he  might  thereby  en- 
tail upon  himself,  he  would  in  no  way  give  her  offense. 
And  as  if  it  were  true  indeed  that  virtue  is  its  own 
reward,  the  unrest  and  misery  which  had  filled  him  the 
last  month  passed  from  him.  He  went  home  at  last, 
rejoicing  in  his  chastened  frame  of  mind. 


CHAPTER   X 

Mr.  Telfer's  private  office  was  situated  at  the  back 
of  the  store,  and  between  it  and  the  salesrooms  was  a 
small  anteroom  for  visitors  who  were  kept  waiting  any 
length  of  time.  Part  of  Betty's  duties  were  to  keep 
this  room  in  order,  to  see  that  magazines  and  periodi- 
cals were  taken  away  and  new  reading  matter  left  on 
the  files  and  tables.  The  door  of  this  room  had  been 
clumsily  devised.  The  iron  staircase,  enclosing  spiral 
stairs  and  leading  to  the  gallery,  abutted  almost  imme- 
diately on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  so  that  only  a 
triangular  passage  was  left  for  egress  or  entrance.  The 
iron  staircase,  which  continued  along  the  gallery  for 
several  yards,  making  one  end  of  it  contiguous  to  the 
stairs,  when  the  door  was  left  ajar,  acted  as  a  sort  of 
speaking  tube,  and  every  word  spoken  in  the  anteroom 
could  be  plainly  heard  on  the  gallery  in  consequence, 
and  vice  versa. 

Betty,  arranging  magazines  in  the  anteroom,  eaves- 
dropped unwillingly  more  than  once,  for  Miss  Connors 
and  Miss  Sharpe  jabbered  incessantly,  and  the  conver- 
sations she  overheard  contributed  to  the  dislike  which 
she  felt  for  the  two  girls.  It  was  a  dislike  which  they 
reciprocated  with  compound  interest.  Miss  Sharpe, 
whose  would-be  polished  exterior  was  misleading,  Betty 
had  at  first  honestly  tried  to  like.  She  felt  there  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  be  at  least  friendly  with  a 
young  lady  who  expressed  such  admirable  sentiments  as 
did  Miss  Sharpe  upon  every  possible  and  impossible 
occasion. 

One  evening  when  Betty  and  Miss  Sharpe  left  the 

158 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         159 

store  together,  Betty  warmed  perceptibly  toward  Miss 
Sharpe,  who  had  been  discoursing  beautifully  upon 
music.  Betty  did  not  guess  that  part  of  the  insert  pro- 
grams published  by  the  Philharmonic  Society,  and  known 
and  valued  by  every  New  York  concert  goer,  had  been 
memorized  for  her  especial  benefit.  She  discovered 
the  fact  about  a  week  later  in  looking  through  some 
old  programs  of  Richard's,  and  from  that  day  on  she 
felt  justified  in  nourishing  her  distrust  and  dislike  of 
Miss  Sharpe. 

One  morning  in  December  the  following  conversa- 
tion was  wafted  down  to  Betty,  who  was  sorting  new 
magazines  from  old,  in  the  anteroom : 

Miss  Sharpe :  "Oh,  my,  what  a  book,  Mamie ;  how 
can  you  bear  to  waste  your  time  on  such  unliterary 
gush?" 

Miss  Connors :  "Oh,  go  chase  yourself,  Rachel. 
Gush,  is  it?  If  you  ever  fall  in  love,  you'll  be  more  of 
a  gazaboo  than  the  girl  in  the  book." 

Miss  Sharpe :  "I  say,  Mamie,  show  the  book  to 
Prudy  and  see  what  she  says." 

Miss  Connors  :  "I  will  not.  Prudy  ain't  half  as  weak- 
minded  as  you'd  like  to  make  her  out  to  be.  'Tain't 
her  fault,  poor  thing,  that  her  Fifth  Avenue  manners 
are  genueye-an,  while  yours  are  eckquired." 

Miss  Sharpe:  "What  a  cantankerous  shrew  you  are, 
Mamie." 

Miss  Connors :  "Talk  United  States,  will  you  ?  Your 
grouch  against  Prudy  ain't  nothing  but  jealousy,  any- 
how. She  didn't  have  to  go  floppin'  herself  all  over 
Richard  the  Innocent's  desk — like  some  other  folks  I 
know,  to  get  him  to  make  the  goo-goos  at  her.  Poor 
other  folks!" 

Miss  Sharpe :  "I  really  do  not  know  whom  you  mean 
by  'other  folks.'  " 


160         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Miss  Connors  :    "Don't,  eh  ?" 

Miss  Sharpe:  "If  you  mean  me — I  never  wasted 
time  on  him.  Richard  the  Innocent  is  such  a  pill  that 
a  girl  could  clasp  his  hand  to  her  heart  without  inter- 
esting him." 

Miss  Connors:  "Did  you  make  as  desprit  an  effort 
as  all  that,  Miss  Schapirowitz  ?" 

Miss  Sharpe:  "Miss  Connors,  you're  insulting.  My 
name  is  Sharpe." 

Miss  Connors:  "Insulting,  am  I?  That's  what  one 
of  my  gentleman  friends  said  to  me  the  other  day,  when 
I  called  him  down." 

Miss  Sharpe:  "I  suppose  he  objected  to  your  having 
more  than  one  'gentleman  friend.'  " 

Miss  Connors :  "My  opinion  is  that  girls  who  approve 
of  only  one  gentleman  friend  were  never  troubled  by 
more  than  one  at  a  time." 

Miss  Sharpe:  "Certainly  I  wouldn't  like  to  have 
friends  who  were  troublesome." 

Miss  Connors :  "Oh,  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  my- 
self— believe  me.  I  believe  as  a  man  has  got  certain 
liberties  while  he  is  courting  a  girl,  but " 

There  followed  a  list  of  prohibited  liberties  graphi- 
cally described  in  detail. 

Betty  clenched  her  little  white  hands  and  ran  up  to 
the  gallery. 

"Girls,"  she  said,  "you  must  not  speak  of  im- 
proper things  in  office  hours.  I  have  spoken  of  this 
before." 

Betty  was  surprised  at  the  authoritative  ring  of  her 
own  voice  and  at  her  courage  in  speaking  thus  to  the 
two  girls,  both  of  whom  were  considerably  older  than 
herself.  She  expected  an  outbreak  of  some  kind,  but 
they,  recognizing  her  authority,  did  not  answer.  Sud- 
denly, however,  Miss  Sharpe  began  a  disjointed  conver- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         161 

sation  on  this  plan,  in  which  Miss  Connors'  retorts  ably 
seconded  her. 

"Mamie,  dear,  hand  me  the  mucilage,  will  you?" 
"Certainly,  dear."  "Thank  you,  dear."  "Don't  men- 
tion it,  dear."  "Rachel,  I  think  I  left  my  pen  on  your 
desk."  "Oh,  yes,  Mamie,  here  it  is.  Do  you  want  it?" 
"Yes,  will  you  hand  it  to  me?"  "Of  course,  don't 
move."  "Thank  you."  "Don't  mention  it." 

The  coming  of  Betty,  the  common  enemy,  had  ce- 
mented the  lacerated  friendship. 

Betty  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  The  means  her 
two  subordinates  chose  for  venting  their  resentment 
against  their  superior  was  so  insidious  that  no  one  could 
have  analyzed  wherein  the  offense  lay.  It  was  so  subtly 
managed.  Betty  was  thankful  when  the  buzzer  sum- 
moned her  to  Mr.  Telfer's  room. 

As  she  entered  the  anteroom  she  saw  Archie  Telfer 
lounging  in  one  of  the  wicker  easy  chairs  in  his  best 
Lord  Chumley  manner.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  bowing 
elaborately  as  she  crossed  the  room  to  the  door  leading 
to  Mr.  Telfer's  private  office.  To  Betty's  surprise,  Mr. 
Telfer  was  not  there. 

"Did  your  father  go  out?"  she  inquired,  in  surprise. 

"My  father?  He  hasn't  been  down  this  morning,  I 
am  told." 

"I  think  he  rang  for  me." 

Archie  Telfer  gave  her  a  dazzling  smile. 

"I  had  the  impudence  to  ring  for  you,"  he  said. 

"The  buzzer  is  there  for  the  purpose  of  summoning 
me  when  I  am  wanted,"  Betty  retorted  coldly.  "What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Converse  with  me."  He  offered  her  a  chair  with  a 
grandiloquent  flourish  of  the  hand. 

"Conversing  with  Mr.  Telfer's  callers  is  hardly  one 
of  my  duties."  She  turned  to  go. 


162         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Don't  go,  Miss  Garside,  or  I  shall  think  that  Rich- 
ard has  been  telling  you  what  a  sad,  bad  man  I  am." 

"Really,  I  am  not  aware,  Mr.  Telfer,  that  Richard 
and  I  ever  discussed  you  at  all." 

"Wow,  wow,  now  will  I  be  good.  Come,  come,  Miss 
Garside,  that's  cruel.  Why  break  a  butterfly  on  the 
wheel?  Why,  I  say?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  that  a  great  big  man  would  care 
to  describe  himself  as  a  butterfly." 

"Why  not?  There  are  masculine  as  well  as  feminine 
butterflies.  Otherwise  the  species  would  die  out,  Lady 
of  the  Glacial  Temperament.'* 

Betty  looked  at  him  helplessly.  He  continued  rapidly, 
circling  around  the  room  as  gracefully  as  if  he  were 
indeed  the  insect  to  which  he  had  likened  himself. 

"You  know,  really,  there  was  no  occasion  for  landing 
on  me  with  both  feet  as  you  did."  He  came  to  a  stop 
at  the  door,  and  stood  leaning  up  against  it,  right  elbow 
resting  upon  cupped  left  hand,  fingers  of  the  right  hand 
gently  fondling  his  chin.  At  the  moment  some  one  tried 
to  open  the  door  from  without.  Archie  felt  the  im- 
pact of  the  shock  and  moved  from  the  door.  But  no 
one  entered.  Betty  had  not  even  noticed  the  inci- 
dent. 

Archie  continued: 

"That  pretty  little  head  of  yours  has  been  thinking 
all  sorts  of  horrid  things  about  me.  Poor  me!  Be- 
cause of  the  three  graces  who  have  entered  the  arena 
for  my  hand,  I  have  been  so  considerate  of  you  and 
your  reputation  that  I  have  not  even  asked  you  to  lunch 
with  me." 

"If  you  had  asked  me,  I  wouldn't  have  accepted  the 
invitation,"  Betty  said  bluntly. 

"Well,  although  two  is  company  and  three  is  a  crowd, 
some  day,  with  Grandmamma  Pryce  to  chaperone  us, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         163 

you  and  I  will  go  on  a  marvelous,  matchless,  murder- 
ous, murmurous,  midday  spree." 

"If  we  three  were  to  lunch  together,  Dick  wouldn't 
be  the  crowd." 

"Slap-dash — bing-bang — what  a  straight  shot  you  are, 
Miss  Absolute  Zero.  I  never  met  a  girl  of  the  Ice  Age 
before,  Miss  Garside.  You'd  make  an  excellent  com- 
panion, I  imagine,  on  a  sweltering  July  day!" 

Betty  could  not  keep  from  laughing.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  be  angry  with  Archie  Telfer  for  any  length  of 
time.  She  always  had  the  sensation,  when  speaking 
with  him  of  participating  in  some  scene  in  a  play  on 
the  stage. 

"How  silly  men  can  be,"  she  said;  "great  grown-up 
men  who  ought  to  know  better." 

"And  that  to  the  Adonis  of  the  Stage!"  He  struck  a 
languishing  attitude,  but  Betty,  paying  no  further  heed, 
left  the  room. 

Out  of  the  room,  her  smile  died  away.  She  had 
laughed  at  Archie  Telfer's  nonsense,  and  yet,  absurdly 
enough,  although  there  had  been  nothing  disrespectful 
in  his  manner,  and  his  words  had  not  been  offensive,  she 
felt  subtly  annoyed.  She  resolved  to  see  as  little  as 
possible  of  Archie  in  the  future. 

Passing  Richard's  door,  she  hesitated  a  moment. 
There  was  nothing  to  tell  him  in  particular,  but  the 
strange  desire  to  be  near  him,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  see 
him,  came  over  her,  as  it  always  did  when  she  knew 
that  he  was  near.  Vaguely,  at  times,  this  feeling  had 
troubled  her,  because  she  suspected  that  it  might  be  the 
beginning  of  the  madness  from  which  all  men  and 
women,  herself  excepted,  seemed  to  suffer.  But  to-day 
she  gave  it  no  thought. 

"Dick,"  she  said  at  the  open  door,  "the  mail  orders 
were  very  light — a  little  over  ten  dollars." 


164         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Thank  you." 

She  stepped  out  and  allowed  the  door  to  swing  to  be- 
hind her. 

"Betty !" 

She  caught  the  swing-door,  flung  it  back,  and  asked: 

"Yes?" 

Richard  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  very  gently: 

"Nothing." 

Disappointed  because  he  had  nothing  to  say  to  her, 
because  he  gave  her  no  excuse  for  lingering  in  his  room 
for  a  moment,  she  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to 
her  work. 

Archie  Telfer,  finding  himself  alone,  strode  with  Beau 
Brummelian  air  into  Richard's  office. 

"I'm  not  disturbing  you,  my  boy,  am  I  ?" 

"Frankly,  you  are." 

"What's  the  matter,  Pryce?'' 

Richard  wheeled  around  savagely  in  his  swivel-chair. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "how  did  you  dare  to 
lock  the  door  after  ringing  for  Miss  Garside?" 

Archie  whistled.  "Well,"  he  said,  "it  takes  a  man 
with  a  clean  bill  of  health  like  yourself  to  think  ill  of  a 
girl  like  Miss  Garside." 

Richard  snorted.  "It's  not  Miss  Garside  I  am  think- 
ing ill  of." 

"You're  a  brute,  Pryce.  I  was  leaning  up  against 
the  door  by  chance — I  vow  it  was  chance — and  I  moved 
away  instantly  when  I  felt  someone  try  the  door." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Richard  surlily. 

"Do  you  know,"  Archie  said  amiably,  "you  are  as 
sour-tempered  lately  as  an  old  maid  or  a  disappointed 
widow.  I'd  like  to  prescribe  for  you,  Pryce.  If  the 
Lady  of  the  Glacial  Temperament  chills  your  too  ardent 
soul  and  gives  your  heart  chilblains — why,  allow  me 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         165 

to  suggest  to  you  that  there  are  other  pretty  faces  in 
the  world." 

"Mind  your  own  business,  will  you?" 

"Pryce,  you're  a  blithering  idiot.  What's  the  use  of 
being  a  Puritan?" 

"If  you  don't  keep  still,  I'll  throw  you  out." 

"Nice,  gentle,  amiable,  courteous  way  you  have  of 
treating  your  employer's  son.  However,  I  bear  you  no 
ill-will.  I'd  like  to  drug  you,  Dicky  Pryce,  and  trans- 
port you  into  a  harem  filled  with  houris  whose  beauty 
and  witching  loveliness  would  make  Semiramis  and 
Cleopatra  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba  look  like  so  many 
counterfeit  nickels." 

"You " 

"Hush!  Don't  call  me  a  cur  again."  Archie  was 
laughing  good-humoredly.  "Perhaps  you  are  right, 
after  all.  Perhaps  your  divinity  is  worth  the  sacrifices 
you  are  making  for  her,  my  Joseph.  Oh,  oh,  for  the 
might,  a  soul  so  white,  to  lead  from  the  path  that  is 
narrow  and  right — for  sure  she's  a  dream,  not  a  vaude- 
ville scream — but  a  moonbeam,  a  sunbeam,  a  bowl  of 
tV^-cream.  In  the  bargain,  she's  a  peach — alas,  beyond 
reach — some  things  to  teach  her — the  admirable  creature 

— I  would  risk  my  neck — I  sure  would,  by  Heck 

Ah,  Richard  Pryce,  Dicky  Pryce,  how  can  I  go  on  with 
my  poetastering  when  your  face  is  set  to  so  sinister  a 
pattern?  Ta-ta,  son — deviate  not  from  the  narrow 
path,  desert  it  not  for  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance. 
Ta-ta,  I  hear  the  melodious  voice  of  the  author  of  my 
being." 

Telfer  senior  had  just  entered  with  another  gentle- 
man who  was  quite  as  fat  and  portly  and  puffy-looking 
as  himself.  Betty,  seeing  them  pass,  remembered  Ar- 
chie's description  of  Direktor  Markheim  and  his  father, 
and  had  no  difficulty  in  guessing  that  the  plebeian-look- 


166         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  companion  of  the  elder  Telfer  was  the  famous 
impresario  of  the  opera,  Direktor  Markheim.  The  great 
man  chose  to  retain  the  German  title  given  to  theatrical 
and  operatic  managers,  a  fact  which  escaped  ridicule  in 
a  company  composed  almost  exclusively  of  foreign  stars 
and  having  only  a  very  small  native-born  contingent. 

Betty  went  on  faithfully  with  her  work.  After  a  half- 
hour  or  so,  Mr.  Telfer  suddenly  appeared  at  her  side 
with  the  Direktor. 

"Miss  Garside,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  meet  Direktor 
Markheim." 

Betty  was  about  to  rise,  but  the  great  man  wagged  his 
fat  head,  and  said : 

"Sit  still,  my  child.  I  have  a  little  music  here  which 
I  would  like  you  to  sing  for  me." 

Betty  grew  red  with  fright. 

"I  do  not  sing,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Telfer  waved  his  big  hand. 

"Mr.  Pryce  tells  us  you  do,  enough  for  this.  There- 
fore, if  you  please." 

Betty  gave  her  employer  an  agonized  look,  but  he 
nodded  encouragingly. 

"Oh,  Markheim  knows  you  are  not  a  Mary  Garden 
or  an  Emma  Eames.  Just  to  oblige  him,  you  know." 

The  ground  being  cut  from  under  her  feet,  her  heart 
beating  like  a  trip-hammer,  Betty  essayed  the  unwelcome 
task.  The  music  was  a  little  German  song  by  Schumann 
on  which  Richard  had  drilled  her,  a  coincidence  which 
she  would  have  found  astonishing  had  she  not  been  too 
confused  to  give  the  matter  a  thought.  The  episode 
had  arranged  itself  so  quickly  that,  in  spite  of  her  mo- 
mentary fright,  she  had  no  time  to  give  way  to  nervous- 
ness. She  was  singing  the  music  before  she  realized 
that  she  was  actually  in  the  thick  of  an  adventure. 

When  she  finished  the   fat   little   Direktor,  his  eyes 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         167 

squinting  like  the  eyes  of  a  Japanese  from  beneath  heavy 
rolls  of  fat,  said: 

"Sehr  gut— sehr  gut." 

"It  will  do?"  Mr.  Telfer  asked  eagerly. 

"I  should  say  so." 

Mr.  Telfer  turned  to  Betty. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Garside.  Will  you  please  go  to 
Mr.  Pryce  and  tell  him  I  said  it  would  do." 

Poor  Betty,  dazed  and  perplexed,  asked : 

"What  will  do?" 

"Just  say  'It  will  do.'  He  will  understand."  Mr. 
Telfer  nodded  his  head  kindly  at  Betty.  He  was  a  big- 
hearted,  whole-souled  man,  and  had  shown  Betty  many 
kindnesses  since  she  had  entered  his  employ.  Looking 
at  him,  Betty  had  often  wondered  how  father  and  son 
could  be  so  utterly  dissimilar.  Betty  rose  to  go,  when 
Direktor  Markheim  said: 

"You  are  fond  of  going  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  heinf" 

"I  have  never  been  inside  the  Metropolitan,"  said 
Betty. 

"Unglaublich!  And  you  have  lived  in  New  York 
for  a  long  time  ?  Telfer,  can  such  things  be  ?" 

Mr.  Telfer  laughed. 

"You  can  remedy  that  quickly  enough,"  he  said. 

"Herrje,  so  I  can.  Wait,  my  child.  One  mo- 
ment." 

And  the  fat  Direktor  drew  a  fat  wallet  from  his 
pocket.  He  was  so  fat  that  Betty  wondered  whether 
his  arms  would  not  break  out  of  their  sockets  under 
the  strain  of  passing  his  arms  way  around  his  body  to 
get  at  his  vest  pocket.  But  no  mishap  of  the  sort  oc- 
curred, and  presently  Betty  found  herself  with  a  flimsy 
bit  of  paper  in  her  hand,  to  which  he  had  signed  his 
initials,  and  which,  he  informed  her,  entitled  her  to  two 


168         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

seats  at  the  opera  for  any  evening  it  would  please  her 
to  select. 

Betty  thanked  him,  and  then  went  on  her  errand  to 
Richard's  room.  She  found  him  tipped  back  in  his 
swivel  chair,  his  hair  standing  out  at  all  angles.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  as  she  entered. 

"Well?"  he  demanded  feverishly. 

"Mr.  Telfer  says  it  will  do." 

"Ah,  I  knew  it!"  Richard  sprang  from  the  chair 
and  called  an  office  boy.  "I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed," 
he  said.  He  came  back  to  Betty.  "Betty,  I  want  a 
long  talk  with  you." 

He  sat  down  upon  his  chair  and  rested  his  arm  upon 
the  desk.  A  curious  feeling  of  being  remote  from  him 
swept  over  Betty.  He  did  not  seem  like  her  Richard, 
her  Dicky,  who  was  always  so  conscious  of  her  pres- 
ence, so  eager  to  do  for  her,  so  completely  wrapped  up 
in  her.  What  had  happened? 

"Betty,  I  did  something  without  consulting  you  which 
may  make  you  a  little  angry  with  me.  To  begin  with, 
the  Musical  Progress  League  has  been  getting  together 
a  fund  to  be  used  for  European  scholarships,  and 
the  judges  in  the  award  of  the  three  years'  scholar- 
ships are  Mr.  Telfer,  Direktor  Markheim  and  Stanley 
Earlcote." 

"The  Man  of  Mystery?" 

"The  same.  Now,  Mr.  Telfer,  although  he  is  the 
owner  of  the  largest  music  publishing  house  in  America, 
knows  nothing  of  music,  and  depends  upon  Markheim, 
and  Markheim,  although  he  is  the  manager  of  the 
greatest  opera  company  in  the  world,  is  very  diffident 
as  a  critic,  and  in  turn  depends  upon  Stanley  Earlcote. 
You  know  that  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  has  been  aroused 
as  to  the  reason  of  Earlcote's  return  to  America.  Some 
folks  do  not  believe  he  is  disabled  at  all,  and  think  that 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         169 

the  story  of  the  catastrophe  which  befell  him  is  a  huge 
press  agent's  hoax." 

"But  is  it?" 

"No,  it  is  not.  The  real  reason  of  his  return  is  that 
he  is  to  help  Markheim  whenever  Markheim  needs  him 
in  coming  to  a  decision  upon  any  question  of  vocal  and 
instrumental  musicianship.  This,  at  least,  is  one  of  the 
real  reasons  of  his  return.  Of  course,  the  salary  of  six 
thousand  a  year  which  the  opera  company  pays  him  for 
acting  as  advisory  counsel,  in  view  of  his  enormous 
wealth,  in  no  way  helped  influence  him  to  accept  this 
post." 

"What  then ?"  Betty's  cheeks  were  glowing  with 

excitement.  This  was  life,  romance,  such  as  one  read 
of  in  books ;  mysterious  motives,  intrigues !  Oh,  this 
was  life,  indeed! 

"I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  care,"  Richard  replied.  "Per- 
haps he  is  glad  of  some  active  interest  in  musical  mat- 
ters. At  any  rate,  the  Musical  Progress  League  has 
not  enough  money  this  year  to  send  more  than  one 
artist  abroad,  although  they  hope,  within  three  or  four 
years,  to  get  enough  money  together  to  finance  four  or 
five  different  artists.  So,  for  the  present,  the  violinist, 
the  pianist,  or  the  singer  of  greatest  promise  will  get 
the  three  years'  scholarship.  And  that  is  where  you 
come  in." 

"I?    What  do  you  mean?"  stammered  Betty. 

"I  mean,  dear,  that  I  have  taken  the  great  liberty 
of  entering  your  name  as  an  applicant  for  the  vocal 
scholarship." 

"Dicky,  how  could  you?  My  poor  little  voice?  And, 
besides,  I  have  no  ambition  at  all.  I  would  hate  a 
public  career." 

"You  think  you  have  no  ambition ;  you  think  a  public 
career  as  singer  would  be  distasteful  to  you,  but  you 


170         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

do  not  know  and  cannot  know  just  what  your  senti- 
ments in  the  matter  are  until  you  know  whether  or 
not  your  voice  is  worth  cultivating.  I  spoke  to  Mr. 
Telfer,  told  him  how  diffident  you  are,  and  he  devised 
the  plan  of  getting  you  to  sing  for  Direktor  Markheim 
without  your  knowing  what  it  was  all  about." 

"But  if  Markheim  is  no  judge?" 

"Oh,  judge  enough  to  know  whether  a  voice  is  worth 
something  or  nothing." 

"When  does  the  contest  come  off?" 

"Ten  days  hence,  December  fifteenth,  at  the  Mark- 
heim residence.  And  now  tell  me,  dear,  that  you  are 
not  angry  with  me." 

"Nothing  that  you  could  do,  Dicky,  could  make  me 
angry  with  you.  But  couldn't  I  crawl  out  of  it — the 
contest,  I  mean?" 

"If  you  'crawl  out  of  it/  as  you  call  it,  you  will  stul- 
tify me.  You  wouldn't  want  to  do  that,  would  you?" 

"Certainly  not.  But  Dicky,  even  if  that  dreadful 
Earlcote  says  that  my  voice  is  worth  cultivating,  I  am 
going  to  refuse  to  go  to  Europe  unless " 

"Unless  what,  Betty?" 

"Unless  you  get  the  scholarship,  dear,  and  take  me 
with  you  as  your  wife." 

Richard  looked  very  grave. 

"We  will  decide  nothing  just  now,"  he  said. 

"Dicky,  I  know  my  own  mind.  I  know  there  is  one 
thing  I  want  in  the  world — your  love  and  yourself,  dear, 
and  nothing  could  outweigh  the  joy  of  being  your  wife, 
the  right  to  care  for  you,  to  do  for  you.  I  would  not 
forego  that  joy,  not  if  I  were  to  be  a  second  Melba  or 
Patti.  I  think,  Dick,  a  woman's  love  precludes  all  other 
aspirations  for  herself." 

"Yes,  dear,  a  woman's  love — but  that,  darling,  ac- 
cording to  your  own  statements,  is  not  the  feeling  you 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         171 

have  for  me.  Don't  interrupt  me,  dear.  I  am  not  going 
to  offend  you.  I  shall  be  very  delicate  in  my  choice 
of  words.  I  feel,  dear,  as  I  told  you  before,  that  you 
may  have  made  a  mistake  in  promising  yourself  to  me. 
I  hope  not.  But  I  do  not  know.  I  am  unable  to  wake 
the  responsive  feeling  in  you,  and  that  may  mean  that 
you  do  not  love  me  after  all." 

"Dicky,"  Betty  asked  impetuously,  "this  isn't  jealousy 
of  Archie  Telfer,  is  it?" 

"No,  Betty.  I  was  afraid  at  one  time  that  he  would 
insinuate  himself  into  your  good  graces.  But  I  think 
you  have  taken  the  measure  of  that  hound." 

"Why  do  you  always  call  him  hard  names,  Dick  ?  He 
has  never  deserved  them  through  his  manner  to  me." 

"Well,  that's  what  he  is,  nevertheless.  Don't  ask 
questions,  Betty,  but  continue  to  give  him  a  wide  berth. 
He's  incredibly  low." 

Betty  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment.     Then  she  asked: 

"Dicky,  you  don't  really  think  I  could  ever  care  for 
anyone  but  you?  You  know  you  are  on  a  pedestal  in 
my  heart,  and  that  feeling,  dear,  I  will  never  have  for 
anyone  else." 

"Betty,  I  want  to  be  fair  with  you.  I  have  to  be  fair. 
I  love  you  more  intensely  than  you  can  imagine,  for 
I  love  you  in  just  the  same  way  as  you  love  me,  and  I 
have  an  additional  love  for  you  as  well.  It  would  be 
terribly  hard  to  lose  you,  but  there  is  one  thing  which  it 
would  be  harder  still  to  bear.  I  could  not  endure  think- 
ing that  I  had  cheated  you  of  your  chance — your  chance 
of  happiness,  your  chance  of  life,  your  chance  of  love, 
your  chance  of  knowing  what  the  deeper  feeling,  the  sub- 
tler tie  can  mean  to  a  woman.  I  cannot  take  the  risk  of 
defrauding  you  of  that.  At  first  my  passion  for  you 
seemed  to  turn  to  a  virulent  poison  when  I  realized  that 
you  did  not  care  for  me  in  that  way.  But  now  I  have 


172         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

the  desire  to  deal  fairly  with  you  under  all  circumstances 
and  conditions,  and  I  would  even  have  the  strength  to 
renounce  you  if  it  were  for  your  best." 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  a  little  awed  by  the  exaltation  with 
which  he  had  spoken.  "I  did  not  know  you  cared  for  me 
as  much  as  all  that.  Dicky,  let  me  withdraw  from  this 
Contest!"  The  sweet  face  was  clouded  with  misery. 
"Dearest,  it  occurs  to  me  only  now  that  if  I  should 
by  any  chance  receive  the  award,  you  would  be  barred. 
Let  me  withdraw  now,  since  my  mind  is  firmly  made  up 
to  refuse  the  scholarship  should  it  come  my  way." 

"No,  dear,  I  insist,  and,  moreover,  I  want  you  to  prom- 
ise me  faithfully  that  if  you  receive  the  award,  you 
will  not  step  aside  on  my  account.  If  you  feel,  then,  that 
cultivation  of  your  voice  will  bring  you  happiness,  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  that  you  will  not  hesitate  to  accept." 

"I  can  safely  promise  that,"  Betty  said,  laughing. 
"You  are  forcing  me  to  play  a  farce  because  you  have 
Quixotic  notions.  So  be  it.  It  is  very  sweet  to  know, 
my  dearest  Dicky  darling,  that  you  love  me  so  unsel- 
fishly. I  had  a  notion,  dear,  that  because  of  the  other 
feeling,  your  love  could  not  be  unselfish.  But  now  I 
see  I  am  wrong.  I  believe,  Dicky,  that  you  love  me  more 
unselfishly  than  I  love  you.  You  have  longed  and  hoped 
and  prayed  for  a  chance  to  go  to  Europe  all  your  life, 
and  now  you  are  willing  to  minimize  your  chances  of 
Europe  because  you  want  to  treat  me  honestly.  You 
would  renounce  me,  even,  if  it  were  necessary  to  secure 
my  happiness.  I  am  not  as  good  as  that.  I  cannot 
imagine  any  circumstance  arising  which  would  make  me 
willing  to  give  you  up.  Perhaps  another  woman  could 
give  you  more  than  I  can  give — could  give  you  the  deeper 
feeling,  the  stronger  love  of  which  you  speak  so  much. 
But  I  would  not  be  willing  to  renounce  you  on  that  ac- 
count. What  I  am  giving  you  is  my  all,  my  everything — 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         173 

gold  of  my  heart,  the  very  marrow  and  pith  of  my  inward 
self,  and  the  voice  of  the  heart  tells  me  that  you  are 
meant  for  me,  and  I  for  you.  I  cannot  express  just  what 
I  feel  for  you,  Dicky.  You  entered  my  life  at  a  time 
when  everything  seemed  black  and  grim,  when  I  was  all 
alone,  and  even  before  you  came  I  knew  you  would 
come.  You  were  my  staff,  my  friend,  my  counselor. 
Did  I  say  you  entered  my  life?  You  filled  it,  you  ab- 
sorbed it  into  your  own,  and  you  cannot  filter  it  away 
again." 

Very  reverently  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"Please  God,"  he  said,  "the  deeper  feeling  may  still 
come." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Because  they  were  both  very  nervous  concerning  the 
formidable  event  which  was  to  transpire  on  December 
fifteenth,  Betty  wholly  on  Richard's  account,  Richard 
principally  as  to  the  general  effect  upon  his  life,  they 
very  sensibly  decided  not  to  sit  at  home  nursing  their 
anxiety,  but  relieved  their  worry  by  judicious  relaxation, 
judicious  relaxation  for  them  meaning  music,  of  course. 
Betty  loved  music,  and  Richard  had  taught  her  how  to 
listen  intelligently.  Once  in  the  concert  hall,  she  surren- 
dered herself  completely  to  the  magic  of  the  melodies,  the 
witchery  of  the  myriad  throated  orchestra.  She  lost  the 
sensation  of  time,  space  and  self.  Her  soul  seemed  to 
become  a  disembodied  thing  that  hovered  somewhere  be- 
tween orchestra  and  singers,  merging  itself  now  with  the 
one,  now  with  the  other,  self-forgetful,  self-unconscious, 
existing  in  a  trance  of  undreamed-of  delight. 

But  it  was  the  opera  "Tannhaeuser,"  which  they  heard 
on  the  pass  provided  by  the  Direktor,  which  was  des- 
tined to  wholly  subjugate  Betty's  imagination,  to  satisfy 
her  completely,  to  enter  into  and  dominate  her  life,  to 
become  part  of  herself.  She  had  glanced  over  the  score, 
she  had  read  the  libretto  before  she  took  her  seat  in  the 
darkened  auditorium;  but  the  words  had  meant  nothing 
to  her,  and  the  score  had  left  her  imagination  untouched 
and  cold.  Yet  so  sensitive  was  she  to  the  message  con- 
veyed by  individual  musical  phrases  that  she  responded 
perfectly  to  the  delicate  shadings  of  the  score,  inter- 
preting them  to  herself  with  unflinching  insight,  with 
a  wealth  of  understanding  that  made  the  mystic  sig- 

174 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         175 

nificance  of  the  opera  stand  out  allegorically  and  with 
the  neatly  limned  precision  of  a  flute  player  of  Arcady  or 
a  Wedgwood  vase  with  its  "silent  melodies." 

In  the  prelude  was  mirrored  the  Titanic  struggle  that 
was  to  ensue.  The  motif  of  the  enchantress  of  the 
Venusberg  and  the  motif  of  the  pilgrims  came  into  clash- 
ing contrast  at  the  very  outset,  and  shadowed  forth  the 
revolt  against  sanctity,  the  rebellion  against  sensuality, 
the  subjugation  by  purity,  the  submission  to  evil,  the 
entire  strange  flux  of  chaste  thinking  and  sinful  living. 
They  shadowed  forth  all  this,  and  hinted  vaguely  at  the 
ultimate  goal,  the  final  spiritual  ravishment,  the  love 
of  a  pure  woman  and  her  strength  to  conquer  the  mani- 
fold enemies  that  beset  her  lover,  the  glamour  of  for- 
bidden things,  his  own  frailty,  the  lurid  memories  of 
dead  sins,  the  terrors  of  the  imagination  lashed  into  life 
by  a  superstitious-ridden,  soul-greedy  church. 

These  two  motifs  clashed,  conflicted,  persisted  side  by 
side.  They  warred  with  each  other,  they  stormed  at 
each  other,  clamorously  proclaimed  their  detestation  of 
each  other.  Now  one  was  in  the  ascendant,  now  the 
other.  But  though  in  the  ascendant  for  the  moment, 
neither  was  triumphant,  neither  was  jubilant  with  the 
sense  of  ultimate  and  permanent  victory.  The  other 
motif  glided  stealthily  beneath  it,  interlaced  it,  punc- 
tured it,  encroached  upon  it,  and  though  no  more  dis- 
tinct at  times  than  a  shadow  at  noon,  the  shadow  grew 
and  miraculously  gained  in  strength  until  it  forced  into 
the  background  its  enemy.  Now  the  conditions  were 
reversed,  and  the  erstwhile  ascendant  motif  bided  its 
time,  watched  its  opportunity  to  break  through  the  pha- 
lanx of  the  musical  armor  arrayed  against  it;  broke 
through  it  at  last  and  reversed  the  conditions  once 
more.  And  thus  continued  the  interminable  truceless, 
ceaseless  struggle,  that  has  subsisted  since  time  imme- 


176         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

morial,  whose  birth  was  contemporaneous  with  the  birth 
of  the  world  and  which  will  continue  to  exist  so  long 
as  gold  glitters,  fire  burns  or  flesh  tempts  flesh  and  blood 
can  leap  in  loathing  and  pulse  in  ecstasy. 

The  motif  of  the  Venusberg  was  full  of  the  promise  of 
soft  pleasure.  It  was  eloquent  of  the  enchantment  of 
secret  and  forbidden  rites.  It  wooed,  cooed,  danced  trip- 
pingly. It  was  gracious,  full  of  allure,  brimful  of  ease. 
It  was  redolent  of  soft  cushions,  softer  limbs  and  lips 
whose  touch  was  softer  than  rose  petals  or  velvet  or 
honey.  Its  onrush  was  like  a  silver  gale  whistling 
through  a  shower  of  golden  rain,  like  the  rustling  of 
gem-laden  skirts  of  a  myriad  of  damosels  fallen  from 
grace.  But  its  wooing  became  monotonous,  the  witchery 
of  the  whirlpool  of  sound  in  which  it  moved,  sweeping 
all  resistance  before  it,  lost  its  note  of  ecstasy,  leaving 
behind  it  a  vision  of  contorted  limbs.  Its  convolutions 
were  no  longer  agreeable;  the  air  seemed  filled  with 
writhing,  wriggling,  suffering,  inutterable  weary  things; 
its  monotony  held  a  menace ;  it  told  of  the  deadly  same- 
ness of  vice,  it  proclaimed  that  pleasure  alone  can  never 
suffice,  that  nothing  can  beget  such  disgust  and  fatigue 
and  loathing  as  an  endless  round  of  sterile  pleasure. 
The  magic  of  the  swishing  cauldron  of  music  in  which 
the  confused  images  had  floated  with  such  gossamer, 
tempting,  fairylike  insistence  but  a  brief  period  before, 
now  seemed  oddly  like  the  hissing  of  the  sulphurous 
fumes  escaping  from  some  purgatorial  cavern  enriched 
by  the  moaning  of  innumerable  wretches  held  in  that 
ante-chamber  of  hell. 

Now  the  motif  of  the  pilgrims  tittilated  through  the 
uneasy  harmonies,  elusively,  ravishly,  like  the  sane  elu- 
sive sweetness  conveyed  by  the  fragrance  of  the  bud- 
ding vine,  evoking  pure  dreams  of  mystic  enchantment. 
The  motif  of  the  pilgrims  shone  through  the  motif  of 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         177 

the  Venusberg  like  a  face  through  a  veil,  and  as  the 
features  of  a  face  assume  shape  and  outline  when  the 
veil  is  drawn  taut,  so  the  outlines  of  the  pilgrim  motif 
became  sharply  limned,  lucid  and  distinct  beneath  the 
disturbing  phantasms  of  those  shrilly  insistent  melodies; 
the  face  pierced  the  veil,  broke  its  frail  threads,  emerged, 
and  the  crepuscular,  vitiating  beauty  of  the  Venusberg 
receded  into  the  background,  completely  submerged  by 
the  gloomy  beauty  of  the  pilgrims'  chorus.  Like  a  rich 
old  tapestry,  hidden  in  the  cavernous  depths  of  some 
monastery  for  centuries,  its  colors  mellowed  by  age, 
but  by  no  means  faded  since  it  had  been  kept  away  from 
the  vulgar  daylight,  the  melody  of  the  pilgrims'  chorus 
unrolled  itself,  breathing  the  mysterious  witchery  of 
imperishable  things,  exuding  an  aroma  of  mystic  sanc- 
tity. About  it  there  was  no  note  of  vulgar  jubilation. 
The  dignity  in  which  it  was  swathed  was  so  lofty  that  it 
barely  stooped  to  recognize  its  enemies,  secure  in  the 
knowledge  that  no  mundane  citadel  can  hold  out  against 
its  unearthly  and  ghostly  preeminence.  It  did  not  sweep 
all  before  it  by  brilliant  onslaught;  it  absorbed,  gently 
pushed  aside,  utterly  dissipatefl  the  melody  that  had 
opposed  it.  It  strove  upward  and  ever  up;  but  it  did 
not  dash  upward  in  a  violent  rush;  gently,  firmly,  irre- 
vocably, moving  step  by  step,  receding  as  often  as  it  ad- 
vanced, yet  ever  advancing  a  little  more  than  it  had 
receded,  it  moved  on,  until  it  attained  its  highest  point, 
where  the  immensity  of  sound  hung  suspended  for  a 
moment  as  if  pinned  to  a  star,  as  if  imbedded  in  a  cloud, 
as  if  punctuating  the  apex  of  the  upward  striving  lat- 
tice work  of  a  Gothic  window,  and  like  a  Gothic  design 
forming  an  incomprehensible  symbol  of  the  pure  desires 
of  the  spirit. 

Beside  the  austere  beauty  of  the  pilgrims'  chorus  the 
filigree  lace  work  of  the  Venusberg  motif  seemed  a 


178         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

sorry  and  pitiful  thing;  in  retrospection  its  filminess  ap- 
peared flimsy,  its  titillations  puerile,  its  allure  trivial; 
and  yet,  when  it  reappeared,  the  brief  lapse  into  virtue 
had  refreshed  the  jaded  senses  like  a  cold  bath,  and  its 
sensuous  charm,  its  superheated  fancifulness,  its  whirl- 
ing, sweeping  diablerie  lashed  and  maddened  and  de- 
lighted the  nerves  as  before,  whipped  and  goaded  and 
tortured  them  with  ever  increasing  vigor  as  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  the  first  scene,  disclosing  the  enchantress 
on  her  couch  of  pleasure  in  the  Venusberg. 

Never  were  arms  so  white,  bosom  so  pearly  and  invit- 
ing, handmaidens  so  frothily  agile.  They  danced,  hurled 
themselves  hither  and  thither,  human  will-o'-the-wisps, 
seemingly  mere  visible  emanations  from  the  seething 
tempest  of  sound  that  boiled  all  about.  Presently,  they 
began  to  pall,  their  agility  bored  where  it  had  erstwhile 
delighted,  their  amazing  genuflections  seemed  senseless 
and  insipid.  Life  seemed  a  hopeless  and  barren  thing  in 
such  an  atmosphere  of  tempestuous  motion.  Tannhaeu- 
ser's  desire  to  leave  this  cavern  of  pleasure  and  lust  be- 
came understandable.  Was  he  merely  sated  or  truly  re- 
pentant? Perhaps  he  himself  did  not  know. 

His  escape  could  not  be  easily  compassed.  The  tur- 
moil subsided,  the  will-o-the-wisp  handmaidens  disap- 
peared. Venus  herself  put  forth  her  every  endeavor  to 
hold  her  lover. 

Never  were  arms  so  white,  hands  so  caressing,  fin- 
gers so  eloquent.  Those  arms,  those  hands,  those  fin- 
gers seemed  living  entities.  They  added  their  individual 
entreaties  to  the  wooing  of  the  ravishing  music  that 
lulled  the  senses  like  a  bath  of  some  perfumed  anodyne. 
The  undulations  of  those  white  arms,  the  movements 
of  those  snowy  hands,  the  gestures  of  those  rosy  fin- 
gers were  each  a  melody  or  a  poem  that  superimposed 
their  beauty  upon  the  harmonic  beauties  that  were  being 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         179 

lavished  in  such  spendthrift  fashion  by  the  orchestra. 
And  this  beauty  that  was  being  squandered  for  his  de- 
lectation vindicated  Tannhaeuser.  It  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  man  born  of  woman  to  be  sated  by  this ;  the 
appeal  of  Venus  was  too  near-human,  too  near-divine, 
too  entirely  superb.  He  was  repentant,  not  sated,  and 
because  a  spiritual  necessity  and  not  a  jaded  appetite 
craving  plainer  fare  had  driven  him  to  his  resolve  to 
leave  the  Venusberg,  he  remained  true  to  his  resolve. 
No  caress,  no  promise  of  future  embraces,  no  anticipa- 
tion of  unceasing  ecstasies  could  lure  him  from  that  re- 
solve. 

Never  were  arms  so  eloquent,  hands  so  white,  fingers 
so  caressing.  But  the  black  magic  of  the  flesh  lost  its 
potency  when  it  opposed  itself  with  such  temerity  to  the 
white  magic  of  the  spirit.  At  last,  humiliated  and  in- 
furiated by  her  failure  to  forge  new  chains  upon  her 
lover,  Venus's  promises  were  turned  into  threats,  her 
wooing  was  transformed  to  a  menace,  her  white  arms 
were  no  longer  sentinels  that  invited  to  a  haven  of 
rest  and  delight  but  serpents  that  writhed  and  twisted  in 
impotent  rage ;  her  fingers  moved  and  laced  and  twitched 
like  ribbons  of  flame  with  power  to  burn  and  consume 
and  poison.  And  from  all  that  Tannhaeuser  effected  his 
escape. 

Almost  the  first  sight  that  met  his  eyes  on  emerging 
into  the  sane,  healthy  world  of  commonplace  things  was 
a  band  of  aged  pilgrims,  setting  forth  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  Rome.  Those  gnarled  and  bent  figures,  some  of  whom 
must  inevitably  fall  by  the  wayside  before  reaching  the 
Holy  City,  appeared  to  him  a  good  omen.  The  wondrous 
melody  of  the  pilgrim's  chorus  was  now  heard  for  the 
first  time  in  unimpeded  beauty,  unhampered  by  the  dis- 
turbing suggestiveness  and  concupiscence  of  the  melodies 
of  the  Venusberg.  The  entire  orchestra  engaged  in  sing- 


180         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  it.  It  was  unfurled  like  a  sacred  banner,  like  some 
holy  flag  pointing  the  way  to  a  bloodless,  spiritual  vic- 
tory. 

Tannhaeuser  now  met  his  old  friends,  the  Landgrave, 
Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  and  others,  and  they,  magnan- 
imous and  beneficent  souls,  rejoiced  on  finding  him. 
They  had  an  old  quarrel  with  him,  but  they  cherished 
no  rancor,  no  resentment.  But  they  did  not  guess  where 
and  how  he  had  spent  his  absent  days.  Had  they  known, 
they  would  have  spurned  Tannhaeuser  instead  of  wel- 
coming him. 

It  was  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  who  acquainted 
Tannhaeuser  with  the  fact  that  Elisabeth,  the  Landgrave's 
daughter,  loved  him  and  has  pined  for  him  ever  since  he 
left  his  circle  of  friends.  Stupendous  magnanimity! 
For  Wolfram  loved  her  himself,  and  hoped  that  in  the 
coming  Singing  Festival  he  would  carry  off  the  prize, 
and  in  winning  the  prize  move  Elisabeth  sufficiently  by 
his  singing  to  win  her  in  marriage. 

What  could  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  offer  Elisabeth  ? 
What  the  other  suitors  for  her  hand?  Men  of  pure 
lives,  of  sanctified  aspirations,  the  tenor  of  whose  lives 
was  undisturbed  by  unlawful  thoughts,  by  unhallowed 
desires,  they  were  bound  to  regard  Elisabeth  as  a  semi- 
angel,  not  as  flesh  and  blood,  as  a  reward,  not  as  a 
helpmate.  But  Elisabeth  was  not  a  woman  to  be  thus  dis- 
posed of.  Though  worn  as  a  crown,  a  crown  in  her 
eyes  was  a  chattel  and  a  chattel  she  would  never  con- 
sent to  be.  As  the  wife  of  Wolfram  or  any  of  the  other 
lofty  and  serene  souls  that  adored  her  as  a  semi-saint, 
she  would  have  been  a  most  highly  cherished  possession, 
a  chief  treasure.  She  would  never  have  been  her  hus- 
band's peer,  his  equal.  She  would  have  been  both  higher 
and  lower  than  himself,  higher,  because  he  would  have 
seen  in  her  a  beatified  creature,  lower,  because  he  would 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         181 

have  protected  and  spared  her  in  every  conceivable  way. 
In  no  manner  could  such  a  man  have  fulfilled  the  cry- 
ing need  of  her  womanhood.  She  was  not  fascinated  by 
Tannhaeuser  because  he  had  sinned,  for  as  yet  she  did 
not  even  know  how  deeply  steeped  he  was  in  sin  of  the 
most  sinister  sort ;  but  she  divined  that  his  spirit  needed 
her  spirit,  his  flesh  her  flesh  to  help  him  on  his  pilgrim- 
age through  life,  and  this  need  of  his  satisfied  the  pri- 
mordial, eternal,  unquenchable  need  of  her  womanhood, 
the  desire  to  be  incorporated  in  the  closest  of  unions  with 
the  man  of  her  choice,  to  satisfy  his  every  need,  to  an- 
swer and  respond  to  his  every  desire. 

All  this  was  to  be  made  clear  to  Elisabeth  herself  only 
upon  the  day  when  the  competing  singers  met  in  the 
great  hall  of  the  Wartburg.  Her  life,  until  that  hour, 
had  flowed  in  statuesque  dignity,  like  a  mighty  stream, 
whose  unruffled  grace  may  appear  majestic  to  some, 
sluggish  to  others.  Nothing  had  disturbed  the  equanim- 
ity of  her  spirit,  stimulated  her  imagination,  or  awak- 
ened the  senses.  Music,  to  these  grave  and  faithful 
men  was  not  a  relaxation,  not  a  stimulant,  not  a  pleas- 
ure, but  a  deep  and  abiding  joy,  a  sort  of  votive  offer- 
ing to  the  soul  of  the  world.  For  they  distrusted  pleas-: 
ure,  they  viewed  it  askance  as  being  an  impermanent, 
shifting,  fleeting,  earthy  thing,  but  they  coveted  joy, 
which  they  conceived  not  as  a  superficial  or  surface  emo- 
tion, but  as  state  of  the  spirit,  which,  once  it  had  been 
attained,  can  be  maintained  forever,  a  state  so  profound 
that  it  underlies  every  human  experience;  it  neutralizes 
sorrow  itself  and  converts  even  poignant  grief,  such  as 
grief  at  the  death  of  one  whom  we  love,  into  a  feeling 
of  melancholy  exaltation. 

Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  was  the  first  to  sing.  His 
singing  inevitably  reflected  his  reverent  personality.  He 
conceived  love  to  be  a  thing  wholly  of  the  spirit;  he 


188         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

knew  naught  of  flesh  tints ;  he  was  purity  embodied.  But 
that  purity,  that  tranquillity,  that  serenity  were  bound  to 
arouse  Tannhaeuser's  ire,  they  awakened  in  him  a  thou- 
sand devils  of  recollection,  myriad  imps  of  defiance.  In 
answering  Wolfram,  he  forgot  time  and  place,  forgot 
Elisabeth's  presence,  and  in  a  passionate  outbreak  of 
song  committed  the  breach  against  decorum  and  good 
taste  of  extolling  Venus  and  her  charms. 

Consternation  fell  upon  all  present.  The  Venus- 
berg!  To  extol  the  love  of  Venus  in  the  presence  of 
Elisabeth !  They  rushed  upon  Tannhaeuser  with  drawn 
swords,  they  would  have  killed  him,  but  Elisabeth  in- 
tervened. She  besought  the  infuriated  singers  not  to 
send  Tannhaeuser's  soul  to  everlasting  perdition  by  kill- 
ing him  unshriven. 

After  that  enormous  offense  one  hope  only  remained. 
Rome !  To  seek  pardon  in  Rome ! 

Followed  days  and  weeks  and  months  of  ceaseless 
agony  of  spirit  for  Elisabeth.  She  prayed  almost  in- 
cessantly during  those  weeks.  She  became  thin  and 
wan  from  loss  of  sleep  and  anxiety.  Her  entire  life 
resolved  itself  into  a  prayer  for  Tannhaeuser. 

The  Pilgrims  returned  from  Rome.  Tannhaeuser  was 
not  among  them,  and  Elisabeth,  filled  with  cruel  fore- 
boding, threw  herself  upon  her  knees  in  passionate 
prayer.  The  prayer  was  destined  to  be  her  last.  Ill,  ex- 
hausted, broken-hearted,  death  claimed  her  while  praying 
for  the  man  she  loved. 

The  irony  of  fate  ordained  that  Tannhaeuser  should  re- 
turn almost  immediately  afterwards.  Broken  in  health 
and  in  spirit,  cursed  by  the  Pontiff  in  Rome,  despairing 
of  his  soul's  salvation,  he  returned  to  his  former  haunts, 
a  mere  phantom  of  his  former  self. 

"Sooner  shall  the  staff  of  dead  wood  in  your  hand 
break  into  bud  than  that  your  sins  shall  be  remitted 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         183 

you!"  Plunged  into  an  abyss  of  hopelessness  by  the 
cruel  words  of  the  Holy  Father,  Tannhaeuser,  ill,  weary 
unto  death,  desiring  merely  a  shelter,  now  determined 
to  return  to  the  Yenusberg,  the  only  abode  that  remained 
for  him.  Wolfram,  filled  with  horror,  argued  with 
him.  Venus  appeared,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  Tann- 
haeuser,  and  those  arms,  so  eloquent,  so  white,  so  full  of 
promise  and  allure  with  their  pleading,  entreating  rosy 
fingers,  seemed  to  draw  him  toward  her,  to  magnetize 
him,  to  rob  him  of  even  the  desire  of  salvation,  just 
as  the  cruel  words  of  the  pontiff  had  robbed  him  of  its 
hope.  Again  the  witching  music  of  the  Venusberg  was 
heard;  modified,  it  was  not  so  boisterously  insinuating 
as  before;  it  promised  oblivion,  a  brief  respite  and  rest 
before  the  sulphurous  flames  of  hell  claimed  their  own. 
Just  then  the  body  of  Elisabeth  was  carried  by  in 
solemn  procession  by  the  pilgrims.  Wolfram  von  Esch- 
enbach,  staunch  friend  and  loyal  spirit,  battled  heroically 
with  Tannhaeuser.  "One  word,  and  you  will  still  be 
saved.  It  is  not  too  late,"  he  cried,  and  Tannhaeuser, 
overcome  with  grief  on  seeing  Elisabeth's  body,  fell 
upon  his  knees.  Filled  with  sudden  detestation  and  ab- 
horrence for  Venus,  he  abandoned  himself  to  his  grief 
for  Elisabeth,  barely  thinking  of  himself.  "Pray  for 
me,  Elisabeth,"  he  cried,  but  that  cry  did  not  voice  fear 
for  his  soul's  welfare  but  rather  a  sublime,  self-for- 
getful repentance  at  having  caused  the  death  of  her 
whose  body  was  lying  before  him.  That  repentance,  that 
self-forgetfulness,  that  abnegation  wrought  his  salvation, 
because  they  compassed  his  redemption.  Sin  was  cast 
out  at  last,  its  corroding  poison  overcome  by  a  subtler, 
holier  force. 

Betty  left  the  opera  house  in  a  state  of  stupefaction. 
The  maze  of  faces,  the  enormous  hordes  of  human  beings 


184         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

who  had  partaken  of  the  same  musical  feast  as  her- 
self and  Dick,  bewildered  her.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
the  music  had  carried  the  same  message  to  no  two  human 
beings,  and  she  wondered  whether  Dick's  interpreta- 
tion vaguely  resembled  her  own. 

"Let  us  walk,"  she  whispered  as  they  reached  the  side- 
walk at  last.  "Let  us  walk." 

The  night  was  clear  and  cold.  The  pavements  were 
swept  clean  by  a  light,  brisk  north  wind,  and  a  gossamer 
moon  looked  down  from  a  deep  blue  sky,  its  noble  glory 
obscured  by  the  glaring  electric  lights  of  the  Great  White 
Way. 

"Dicky — what  does  Tannhaeuser  mean  to  you  ?" 

"The  continual  struggle  between  good  and  evil — be- 
tween Ormuzd  and  Ahriman,  as  the  ancient  Persians 
called  it,  making  a  god  beneficent  and  a  god  malignant  of 
the  two  forces.  The  same  thought  recurs  in  every  re- 
ligion, because  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil  is 
one  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  life.  The  world  cannot 
be  wholly  good  or  wholly  bad." 

"Why  can  the  world  not  be  wholly  good?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  have  often  wondered.  The  sub- 
ject is  one  that  eludes  reason.  One's  thoughts  seem  to 
run  around  in  a  circle  and  arrive  nowheres." 

"But  why?    Have  you  no  theory?" 

"No,  Betty,  I  have  not." 

"But,  Dicky,  can  you  imagine  any  man  as  fine-fibered 
as  Tannhaeuser  being  so  horrid  at  the  same  time?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.     Some  men  are  that  way." 

"Even  if  he  loved  another  woman?" 

Richard  did  not  reply,  and  Betty  repeated  her  ques- 
tion. 

"I  suppose  Wagner  wanted  to  visualize  the  continual 
temptation  of  the  flesh.  Your  question  is  loosely  framed, 
Betty." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         185 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"You  mean,  could  any  man  loving  a  good  woman  find 
pleasure  in  being  the  lover  of  another,  a  wicked 
woman  ?" 

"Yes,"  her  voice  was  almost  inaudible.  "Can  you 
understand  that,  Dick?" 

"No,  Betty,  I  cannot." 

He  felt  the  clasp  of  her  fingers  upon  his  arm  tighten. 
Neither  spoke  again  until  they  reached  home. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  evening  of  December  fifteenth  arrived  at  last. 
As  Betty  was  still  in  mourning,  she  wore  a  simple,  girl- 
ishly made  white  gown,  with  black  ribbons  at  her  waist, 
but  because  her  hair  and  her  eyes  were  so  black  the  rib- 
bons sounded  the  note  of  mourning  but  ineffectually,  and 
seemed  rather  the  last  refinement  of  fin  de  siecle  chic  than 
a  badge  of  sorrow.  Her  pristine,  virginal  loveliness  was 
thrown  into  high  relief  by  this  setting  of  black  and  white, 
and  Dicky  scrutinizing  her  intently  at  her  own  and  Mrs. 
Presbey's  request,  the  latter  having  helped  dress  her, 
felt  a  strange  conglomeration  of  emotions  sweep 
through  him.  Her  purity  was  so  apparent  that  it  should 
have  precluded  passion.  Nature  should  have  allowed  her 
the  privilege  of  eternal  virginity.  But,  owing  to  the 
brutal  significance  of  life,  eternal  virginity  meant  a  drab 
and  meaningless  middle  age,  meant  unlovely  and  unloved 
spinsterhood.  The  only  truly  kind  way,  then,  in  which 
Nature  could  preserve  temperaments  such  as  Betty's 
from  the  contamination  which  life  must  inevitably  bring, 
was  to  dole  out  death.  But  death,  again,  before  fruition 
and  fulfilment  of  love,  meant  the  blighting  of  hope,  the 
perpetuation  of  an  unextinguishable  fire,  the  agonies  of 
purgatory  for  the  man  with  whom  death  had  so  fraudu- 
lently dealt. 

It  was  a  rainy  night,  and  they  were  thankful  when 
at  last  they  were  safely  ensconced  in  the  taxicab,  which 
Richard,  fearing  Betty  might  take  cold  in  the  thin  sum- 
mer gown,  had  ordered. 

"Oh,  Dicky,  how  heavenly  this  is.    When  we  are  rich, 

186 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         187 

dearest,  we  will  take  a  taxicab  ride  every  rainy  night  in 
the  year." 

"Why  on  rainy  nights?" 

''Because  rainy  nights  are  caused  by  the  falling  of  tears 
of  lovers  who  are  in  heaven,  and  we,  dearest,  will  be 
selfishly  happy  and  rejoice  that  we  are  still  on  earth, 
where  tears  are  rare." 

"Sweetheart !" 

"Don't  attempt  to  kiss  me,  Richard,  because  of  the 
dress." 

"If  it  were  not  for  the  dress  ...   ?" 

"I  am  as  ready  for  kisses  as  you  are,  am  I  not,  dear- 
est? Who  gave  whom  the  first  kiss,  silly?" 

"Betty,  sweetheart,  you  are  adorable." 

"Oh,  adorable — hear  him !" 

"Darling,  you  were  never  quite  like  this  before — so 
playful,  so  wheedlingly  entertaining." 

"Am  I  usually  so  dull?" 

"Sweetheart,  you  know  what  I  mean.  You  do  love 
me,  don't  you,  Betty?" 

"Um,  um — possibly — a  little." 

"How  much,  Betty?" 

"How  can  one  measure  love — or  weigh  it?  Pound 
avoirdupois  or  troy?" 

"Betty,  Betty,  you  are  driving  me  mad.  One  kiss, 
dearest !" 

"If  I  gave  you  one  kiss,  Dick,  you  would  wish  two, 
and  two  would  inevitably  lead  to  four,  and  four,  geo- 
metrical progression  be  thanked,  to  sixteen.  And  my 
dress,  Dicky,  my  dress  is  to  be  considered." 

Richard's  brain  reeled.  Never  before  had  she  indulged 
in  banter  of  this  sort.  Never  before  had  the  feminine  in 
her  held  the  upper  hand  so  completely.  Hope  bounded 
sky-high.  He  had  not  believed  her  capable  of  such  de- 
licious love-banter ;  did  it  emanate  from  her  heart  or  her 


188         THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART 

head,  was  it  due  to  high  animal  spirits?  He  had  never 
known  her  to  possess  anything  vaguely  resembling  that 
usual  concomitant  of  youth.  Was  she  at  last  to  dis- 
cover that  not  only  the  spirit  but  the  flesh  as  well  must 
participate  in  love  to  give  it  well-rounded  proportions? 
Then  he  rebuked  himself  for  the  second  time  that  even- 
ing for  indulging  in  such  thoughts.  He  was  determined 
to  stifle  his  desire  for  her. 

"Dicky !" 

"Darling?" 

"Dicky,  when  you  are  rich  and  famous,  we  will  have 
everything  we  want  for  yourself  and  myself,  too.  Won't 
we  ?  How  heavenly  it  will  be." 

"Are  there  many  things  you  want  ?" 

"Loads." 

"For  instance?" 

"A  Cornelian  cameo  for  your  watch-fob." 

"Oh,  but  that  doesn't  count.  That  is  for  me.  What 
do  you  want?" 

"And  a  scarf-pin — the  one  we  saw  in  Maiden  Lane 
the  other  day,  with  a  pink  pearl,  do  you  remember?  It 
was  set  in  a  crescent  of  small  diamonds.  Price  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

"But  that  is  something  for  me  again.  Why  not  think 
of  something  for  yourself?" 

"Then  I  want  a  real  Corot  to  hang  over  your  piano 
right  above  a  bust  of  Beethoven,  and  of  course,  instead 
of  the  plaster  Beethoven  we  want  a  bust  in  marble,  and, 
oh  yes,  a  real  Stradivarius  to  loan  to  anyone  who  wants 
to  play  a  violin  concerto  with  you." 

"Betty,  oh  Betty,  have  you  no  wishes  for  yourself?" 

"Yes,  if  it  were  not  selfish,  I'd  rather  we  would  re- 
main poor  so  I  could  wash  and  scrub  for  you." 

"As  if  I'd  let  you!" 

"kYou'd  never  know  the  difference — you  dear  thing! 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         189 

But,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  better  to  be  rich, 
because  of  course,  if  you  weren't  rich  it  would  mean 
that  you  were  not  successful.  Instead  of  being  poor,  you 
might  be  so  nervous  that  you  couldn't  stand  having  a 
servant  around  you,  and  I  could  still  do  for  you  as  if 
we  were  poor." 

"You  are  certainly  mapping  out  a  great  future  for 
me — poverty  or  neurasthenia — thank  you." 

"Oh,  you  darling  Dicky.  I  hope  you  will  become  a 
multi-millionaire — so  you  can  have  the  pleasure  of  buying 
me  everything  I  want." 

"Yes,  but  what  do  you  want?" 

"Nothing,  but  I  will  invent  a  lot  of  fictitious  wants 
for  you  to  fill  every  day." 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  they  fell  silent. 

The  mansion  of  Direktor  Markheim  was  brilliantly 
lighted,  all  too  brilliantly,  Betty  thought,  for  so  shabby 
an  interior.  Shabby  the  furniture  seemed  to  her,  and 
shabby  the  rugs  and  hangings.  Betty,  in  her  unsophis- 
tication  in  matters  of  art,  had  no  idea  that  the  shabby 
hangings  were  priceless  old  Bayeux  tapestry,  that  the 
threadbare  rugs  were  precious  Kurdistan  and  Ghiordez 
and  Shiraz  rugs,  and  more  valuable  than  the  most  gor- 
geously splendid  contemporary  rug  to  be  found  in  any 
department  store,  and  that  the  mangy-looking  chairs 
were  genuine  Jacobean  chairs,  having  as  carefully  au- 
thenticated a  pedigree  as  any  race  horse. 

Direktor  Markheim's  residence  was  in  fact  a  museum 
rather  than  a  home.  Bronze  Buddhas,  from  India;  a 
Chinese  Joss  and  rose-colored  armor  from  old  Nippon 
were  jumbled  together  with  Sevres  vases  on  which  draw- 
ing-room shepherds  and  shepherdesses  danced  minuets 
with  freshly  laundered  lambs  gamboling  about  in  the 
background.  The  rooms,  though  spacious,  were  not 
large  enough  for  the  enormous  throng  of  people  as- 


190         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

sembled  in  them.  Betty  and  Richard  were  caught  in  a 
swaying  mass,  as  closely  packed  as  the  Christmas  crowds 
in  a  popular-priced  department  store. 

They  were  pushing,  or  being  pushed  forward  when  a 
voice  back  of  them  remarked : 

"The  Herr  Direktor  likes  to  pack  even  his  own  private 
house,  just  to  keep  his  hand  in  practise  in  packing  the 
big  house  on  Broadway."  It  was  Archie  Telfer.  He 
looked  aggressively  handsome  in  evening  clothes,  and 
contrived  to  look  cool  and  perfectly  at  ease  in  spite  of 
the  crush.  As  usual,  his  manner  brought  the  color  to 
her  cheeks.  She  saw  Richard's  eyes  harden  as  her 
color  mounted,  and  in  consequence  anathematized 
Archie.  He,  nonchalantly  paying  no  attention  to  Dick's 
frigid  manner  or  her  own  diffidence,  found  what  he 
described  as  "an  Indian  trail  through  this  dense  for- 
est of  imported  civilization."  Certainly  it  was  the  most 
cosmopolitan  assemblage  of  men  and  women  that  Betty 
had  ever  found  herself  in,  and  willy-nilly,  Richard  not- 
withstanding, she  was  grateful  to  Archie  for  steering 
them  away  from  the  draughty  entrance  hall  toward 
Frau  Direktor  Markheim,  who  was  receiving,  and  then 
into  a  back  parlor  where  there  was  much  more  vacant 
floor  space. 

"By  the  by,"  said  Archie,  having  safely  piloted  them 
to  a  small  alcove,  "Richard,  my  son,  the  Herr  Direktor 
is  very  anxious  to  see  you  as  soon  as  you  come,  con- 
cerning the  order  in  which  the  various  contestants  are 
to  appear.  You  will  find  him  and  Mr.  Earlcote  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs." 

Richard  was  furious  because  he  must  leave  Betty  in 
the  society  of  the  man  he  had  every  reason  to  distrust 
and  dislike,  but,  mustering  as  much  grace  of  manner 
and  countenance  as  he  could,  he  went  his  way. 

"I  am  going  to  initiate  you  a  bit,"  said  Archie  Telfer, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         191 

looking  Betty  over  leisurely.  "Not  nervous,  are  you?" 
Her  color  had  died  away,  and  she  had  the  sensation  of 
being  frightfully  pale. 

"A  wee  bit,  perhaps,"  Betty  replied.  "Are  many  ce- 
lebrities present?" 

"Everybody  present  is  a  celebrity  past,  present  or 
future,"  Archie  retorted,  laughing.  "If  you  are  nerv- 
ous because  of  the  celebrities,  I  think  I  can  help  you 
overcome  your  stage- fright.  I'll  introduce  one  or  two 
to  you.  Do  you  see  that  man  yonder,  who  looks  as  if 
he  had  used  shoeblacking  on  his  mustache?" 

The  description  fitted  the  gentleman,  whom  Archie 
indicated  by  a  glance,  like  the  proverbial  glove.  Betty 
laughed. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"For  one  thing  he  is  the  champion  beer  drinker  of 
the  musical  colony  in  New  York.  He  has  been  known 
to  consume  fifty-five  glasses  of  Pilsener — heavy  im- 
ported beer,  you  know — at  one  sitting." 

Betty  looked  incredulous. 

"I  am  going  to  angle  him  for  you,  so  you  can  ex- 
amine him  at  your  leisure.  The  Dutchmen  are  all  alike, 
and  the  Italians  are  alike  in  a  different  way.  One  type 
drinks  its  beer  and  the  other  eats  his  spaghetti.  At 
eleven  o'clock  a  buffet  luncheon  is  provided,  in  which 
the  tastes  of  each  nationality  are  catered  to,  for  the 
Herr  Direktor,  when  he  has  his  'evenings'  does  not 
treat  his  guests  like  the  stork  and  the  fox  in  the  fable — 
but  provides  cosmopolitan  fare,  so  that  none  of  the.  song- 
birds, whether  German,  Frenchman,  Italian  or  Spaniard, 
need  fast.  Ah,  there  is  he  of  the  shoeblacked  hair.  I 
will  introduce  him  to  you,  so  you  can  examine  a  celeb- 
rity at  your  leisure." 

"Don't,"  said  Betty  feebly,  fearing  she  knew  not 
what. 


192         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Why  not?"  Archie  threw  back  at  her,  his  amiabil- 
ity undisturbed.  "I  suppose  that  rascal  Richard  has 
been  warning  you  against  me.  Now,  my  dear  young 
lady,  when  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  soda-water,  you  may 
justly  misdoubt  it  for  fear  that  I,  villain  that  I  am,  have 
put  into  it  knockout  drops  or  some  other  species  of  fic- 
titious dope,  such  as  exists  only  in  the  pages  of  dime 
novels  and  the  science  supplements  of  the  yellow  papers. 
But  when  I  offer  to  introduce  someone  to  you,  to  amuse 
you,  in  a  house  as  eminently  respectable  as  the  Direk- 
tor's,  you  really  must  not  suspect  me  of  setting  afoot 
a  conspiracy  to  kidnap  you." 

"I  never  did,"  said  Betty  a  little  indignantly. 

Archie  laughed,  and  before  she  could  say  another 
word,  darted  off  nimbly  in  pursuit  of  the  gentleman 
against  whom  he  had  humorously  influenced  Betty.  He 
returned  with  his  prey  a  few  seconds  later,  and,  by  way 
of  introduction,  mentioned  an  unpronounceable  name  to 
Betty. 

"Miss  Garside,"  Archie  continued,  "I  think  will  be 
the  Emma  Eames  of  the  rising  generation  of  singers. 
Her  voice  is  to  be  tested  to-night." 

"Indeed,"  said  he  of  the  shoeblacked  hair  very  calmly, 
as  if  future  Emma  Eames  were  of  slight  importance  to 
the  world.  "In  appearance  you  remind  me  a  leetle  of — > 
no,  not  of  Eames,  but  of  della  Florenzia.  Not  so,  Mr. 
Telfer?" 

"I  had  not  noticed  it,"  said  Archie  indifferently. 

"Joost  a  leetle,"  said  the  shoeblacked  gentleman. 
"Joost  a  leetle,  when  della  Florenzia  is  made  up  to  look 
like  a  nice,  pretty  leetle  maiden.  But  I  hope  your  voice, 
Mees  Garside,  is  better  than  della  Florenzia's.  Not  so, 
Mr.  Telfer?" 

"To  believe  that  it  were  no  better  would  be  an  insult 
to  Miss  Garside,"  said  Archie  magnificently. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         193 

"True,  quite  true,"  assented  the  mustachioed  gentle- 
man. "Veil,  we  will  see.  We  will  see." 

And  with  this  prophecy,  which  signified  nothing,  he 
made  his  bow  and  passed  on. 

"Who  was  he  ?"  asked  Betty,  smiling.  Her  smile  car- 
ried the  quality  which  smiles  wear  when  amusement  at 
the  expense  of  someone  else  has  been  suppressed. 

"The  new  musical  conductor  for  the  Wagnerian  music- 
dramas,  none  greater,"  said  Archie.  "Miles  have  been 
written  about  his  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable  inter- 
pretations." 

"Not  really?" 

"Assuredly." 

"And  of  whom  did  he  say  I  reminded  him?" 

Archie  pursed  his  lips  enigmatically. 

"A  well-known  vaudeville  star,"  he  replied,  "and,  as 
I  said,  I  never  noticed  the  faintest  resemblance.  The 
young  lady  is  over  there,  near  the  tallest  palm  in  the 
bay  window." 

Betty  craned  her  neck  discreetly,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  young  woman,  hardly  older  than  herself,  dressed  in 
the  choicest  of  French  skin-tight  gowns,  and  displaying 
a  figure  which  might  have  tempted  a  sybarite ;  the  shoul- 
ders which  surmounted  the  figure  would  have  under- 
mined the  fortitude  of  St.  Anthony  himself.  Jewels 
tinkled  at  her  corsage,  a  rope  of  pearls  was  wound 
about  her  right  arm,  which  was  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
while  the  left  sleeve,  consisting  of  lattice-work  of  black 
velvet  ribbon,  secured  with  seed  pearls,  terminated  at 
the  elbow.  One  side  of  the  gown  was  black,  the  other 
cherry-colored.  Her  entire  little  person  exuded  diablerie 
and  witchery.  Three  layers  of  men  were  crowded  about 
her,  and  it  was  only  when  a  waiter  approached  with  a 
glass  of  water  which  someone  had  requested  that  the 


194         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

circle  of  homage-doers  parted  sufficiently  to  allow  Betty 
a  glimpse  of  the  enchantress. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  Betty  said,  "isn't  she?"  She 
asked  the  question  in  all  innocence,  not  realizing  that  an 
accomplished  man  of  the  world  like  Archie  Telfer  would 
take  it  as  an  invitation  for  a  compliment. 

"Not  nearly  as  beautiful  as  the  young  lady  she  is  said 
to  resemble,"  he  replied.  "And  now  that  my  attention 
has  been  called  to  it,  I  believe  there  is  a  resemblance, 
though  it  is  very  slight.  But  there  is  a  great  difference 
between  you  in  every  other  way." 

"In  what  way,  for  instance?"  Betty  queried.  "Her 
hair  and  eyes  are  black.  So  are  mine.  That  is  the 
entire  resemblance,  as  I  see  it."  She  was  not  egotisti- 
cal as  a  rule  in  seeking  to  focus  the  conversation  about 
herself,  but  something  about  this  woman,  some  subtle 
quality,  a  gliding,  mysterious  something,  seemed  to 
challenge  her  to  invite  Archie  Telfer's  comparative 
views. 

"Well,"  said  Archie,  "for  one  thing, — you  won't  mind 
the  comparison,  I  hope — she  is  more  skillful  than  your- 
self in  the  art  of  dressing,  and  infinitely  less  scrupulous 
in  pressing  to  the  uttermost  the  seductions  of  which  that 
art  can  be  made  capable." 

Betty  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Whatever  might  be  said 
of  Archie  Telfer,  a  half-hour  spent  in  his  company  was 
certainly  not  dull.  His  entire  trend  of  thought  seemed 
so  opposed  to  that  of  every  other  person  she  had  ever 
met,  and  his  viewpoint  on  every  conceivable  subject 
seemed  so  totally  unlike  all  ideas  she  was  familiar  with 
that  she  found  him  mightily  interesting.  That  Dicky 
did  not  approve  of  her  interest  she  was  fully  aware, 
and  as  she  was  convinced  that  the  interest  was  purely 
platonic,  purely  conversational,  it  did  not  worry  Betty 
very  much  that  Dicky  did  not  approve. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         195 

"Do  tell  me  a  little  something  about — what  did  you 
say  her  name  was?" 

"I  didn't  say  at  all.  Her  real  name  is  Katharine — 
Kitty,  for  short — Florence.  But  Kitty  Florence  didn't 
suit  this  New  York  girl  after  she  began  to  make  a  hit 
abroad,  and  she  transformed  herself  into  Katarina  della 
Florenzia.  Quite  an  improvement,  eh?  Well,  Katarina 
had  her  affections  badly  wrenched  last  year.  Count  Hel- 
lersperg,  scion  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  Austria, 
and  the  young  lady  were  very  much  in  love  with  each 
other  last  season." 

"Why  didn't  they  get  married?  Was  there  an  ob- 
stacle?" 

Archie  suppressed  his  amusement. 

"Well,  I  believe,  so  I've  been  told,  the  young  man's 
father  objected." 

"If  he  loved  her,  I  would  think  he  would  have  mar- 
ried her  all  the  same." 

Archie  thought,  "Oh,  Jehovah,  what  innocence,"  but 
he  said,  "So  would  I  and  so,  of  course,  would  any 
gentleman." 

But  if  Betty  was  innocent,  she  was  by  no  means  silly. 
She  asked  abruptly: 

"By  the  way,  have  you  decided  which  of  the  three 
you  are  going  to  marry?" 

"Bow-wow,"  said  Archie.  "However,  the  question 
does  not  phaze  me  in  the  least.  I  may  have  to  answer 
it  in  court,  and  I  shall  answer  in  court  as  I  answer  you, 
that  I  may  marry  a  fourth  lady,  a  young  lady  with  black 
hair,  and  black  eyes,  and  a  pair  of  the  sweetest  red  lips 
I  have  ever  seen." 

He  thought  to  embarrass  her,  but  Betty  said,  laughing : 

"Then  surely  you  must  be  thinking  of  marrying  Kata- 
rina della  Florenzia." 

"No,  no,  Katarina's  near-double." 


196         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Has  she  more  than  one  near-double?"  asked  Betty, 
enjoying  the  nonsense  thoroughly,  and  not  realizing  the 
danger  of  playing  with  a  man  of  Archie  Telfer's  type, 
not  knowing  how  formidable  even  the  idlest  badinage 
may  become  if  it  happens  to  touch  the  Achilles  heel  of 
so  unscrupulous  and  accomplished  a  libertine  as  the 
handsome  man  beside  her. 

"She  has  only  one  near-double  as  far  as  I  know,"  said 
Archie  Telfer,  "and  she " 

"Is  engaged,  as  far  as  I  know,"  said  Betty,  laughing. 

The  natural  excitement  which  the  events  to  which  she 
was  looking  forward  that  evening  had  engendered  in 
her,  the  heavy  air  of  the  room  permeated  with  the  no- 
ticeable, peculiar  quality  existing  in  every  room  where 
many  human  personalities  commingle,  the  drowsy  fra- 
grance of  the  cut-flowers,  the  undercurrent  of  music  stir- 
ring somewhere  behind  the  palms  of  the  bay  window 
and  weaving  itself  through  the  rich,  sonorous  ocean  of 
voices  as  a  bank  of  clouds  interlaces  itself  with  the  sky, 
all  this  had  stimulated  in  her  a  quickness  and  alertness 
of  thought  and  repartee  which  she  ordinarily  lacked. 
To  Archie  Telfer,  expert  appraiser  of  women,  she  had 
never  seemed  so  womanly,  in  fact,  she  never  had  ap- 
peared to  him  as  a  woman  at  all  until  this  evening.  She 
had  always  seemed  to  him  a  naiad  or  a  wood-nymph,  a 
delicious  fragrant  young  thing  to  look  at,  but  rather 
tedious  and  unstimulating  to  all  the  senses  except 
that  of  vision.  He  had  never  even  desired  her,  as  men 
are  prone  to  desire  women.  To  desire  a  woman  with 
Archie  Telfer  was  to  secure  her,  since  the  women  who 
attracted  him  were  usually  of  loose  or  at  least  unstable 
virtue.  This  process  Archie  Telfer  termed  "picking 
flowers  by  the  wayside."  He  had  never  expected  to 
add  this  particular,  tender,  fragrant  little  hothouse  blos- 
som to  his  nosegay.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  wanted  it 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         197 

now.  He  merely  wondered,  and  decided  to  remain 
watchful. 

"Engaged  as  far  as  you  know,"  he  repeated  the 
phrase.  "Engagements  are  made  to  be  broken,  you 
know." 

"No,  they're  not,"  said  Betty,  speaking  shyly,  yet 
with  pretty  dignity.  "They're  contracted  to  culminate 
in  marriage.  Tell  me  more  of  Miss  Kitty." 

"What  is  there  to  tell  ?  That  she  is  not  above  making 
money  by  unscrupulous  means  ?" 

Archie  hazarded  the  statement  couched  as  a  question 
to  test  Betty's  innocence.  He  supposed,  that  after  what 
he  had  previously  said  about  Kitty's  unfortunate  love- 
affair,  that  Betty  would  now  guess  what  the  unscrupu- 
lous means  of  making  money  were.  But  Betty  was 
divinely  innocent  with  the  innocence  of  the  truly  moral, 
which,  though  cognizant  that  evil  exists,  never  attempts 
to  connect  any  particular  person  with  evil.  Betty  said : 

"What  do  you  mean?  Smuggling?  Playing  bridge? 
Gambling?  Not  drinking?" 

These  were  the  worst  and  only  forms  of  dissipation 
of  which  women  could  be  guilty  which  occurred  to 
Betty  at  the  moment.  Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said  nothing,  but  in  that  brief  second  of  time  he 
became  poignantly  aware  that,  if  he  could,  he  would  pick 
this  particular  blossom.  WThat  he  felt  for  her  was  as- 
suredly not  love,  since  her  innocence  in  no  way  attracted 
him  to  her,  but  merely  made  her  appear  ridiculous;  he 
scarcely  even  desired  her,  for  she  aroused  no  intense 
pitch  of  emotion  in  him ;  his  wish  for  her  was  simply  the 
wish  of  the  filthy-handed  little  guttersnipe  who,  seeing 
a  clean,  neatly  dressed  little  child,  does  not  rest  until  he 
has  soiled  the  dainty  freshly  laundered  gown  of  the 
other  child  with  his  own  grimy  hands.  Archie  Telfer  was 
curious  to  see  just  how  such  purity,  such  whiteness 


198         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

would  conduct  itself  under  given  conditions.  He  con- 
cluded it  was  worth  a  try.  He  regretted  that  he  had 
to  leave  town  the  next  day,  as  he  and  his  management 
had  abruptly  decided  to  postpone  the  opening  night  of 
"The  Sun-God"  in  New  York  another  two  months,  to 
the  unutterable  chagrin  of  the  ticket-purchasers  of  the 
advance  sale,  in  order  "to  try  the  show  on  the  dog,"  the 
dog  in  this  case  being  a  string  of  towns  stretching  from 
New  York  to  Chicago.  Here,  however,  was  something 
to  look  forward  to  upon  his  return.  Gravely  he  pulled 
out  his  scented  cambric  handkerchief  and  knotted  one 
corner  of  it. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for  ?"  Betty  asked. 

"To  remind  me  of  a  matter  I  have  to  attend  to  on 
returning  to  New  York." 

"And  will  you  keep  the  handkerchief  in  that  gnarled 
condition  all  the  time  you  are  on  the  road?" 

"No — I'm  a  methodical  person.  Every  evening,  like 
a  sea-captain,  I  enter  the  knots  I  have  made  in  my 
book." 

"Who  is  that  lady,  an  Italian,  I  think — with  the  sweet, 
sad  face?" 

"That?    Theresia  Hudrazzini — the  famous  soprano." 

"Yes,  thank  you — I  knew,  of  course,  that  she  was  a 
soprano  and  famous,"  Betty  laughed.  "What  an  an- 
gelic face!" 

"She  is  a  very  charming  woman.  She  also  was  on 
the  Proteus.  She  was  married  when  she  was  eighteen, 
and  her  husband  died  on  the  third  anniversary  of 
their  marriage.  She  has  not  remarried,  in  spite  of 
her  extreme  youth  at  the  time  of  her  husband's 
death,  an  unheard  of  state  of  affairs  among  operatic 
stars." 

"I  think  it  beautiful,"  said  Betty  enthusiastically. 

Richard  approached  them,  making  his  way  with  diffi- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         199 

culty  through  the  crowd  of  people  that  separated  him 
from  Betty  and  Archie.  He  looked  pale  and  excited. 

"Instrumental  contestants  are  to  play  first,"  he  said. 
"There  is  one  vocal  contestant  only,  Betty — yourself. 
You  are  the  last  on  the  list.  I  come  just  before  you." 

"What's  the  object  of  having  all  these  people  here?" 
asked  Betty. 

"Direktor  Markheim  says  Earlcote  wants  to  judge  of 
the  stage  presence  of  the  contestants,"  Richard  replied. 
"Hence  he  invited  all  these  folks,  and  erected  a  small 
platform  at  the  end  of  the  room,  as  a  miniature  stage. 
They  are  drawing  the  curtains  now." 

"Has  Earlcote  come?"  Betty  asked  curiously.  "Have 
you  seen  him?" 

Richard  shuddered  visibly.  "I  have  seen  him,"  he 
answered.  "God  forgive  me  for  hating  a  man  because 
he  is  a  cripple.  But  I  hate  him.  And  I  wish  I  were 
well  out  of  this."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "If  you  do 
not  wish  to  sing,  Betty,  ask  Archie  to  take  some  mes- 
sage to  the  Direktor.  You  will,  won't  you,  Archie,  if 
Miss  Garside  wishes  it?" 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Archie.  "You  look  as  if  you  had 
the  ague,  Richard." 

Richard  shook  himself  to  efface  the  disagreeable  im- 
pression made  upon  him  by  Earlcote.  "Did  he  affect 
you  that  way,  too,  Archie?" 

"He  affects  everybody  that  way,"  Archie  replied 
dryly.  "He  gives  everybody  a  turn.  I  have  warned 
Miss  Garside  not  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  you  know." 

"You  two  men  strike  me  as  being  very  foolish  and 
wicked,"  interpolated  Betty  calmly.  "If  Mr.  Earlcote 
is  a  cripple,  as  Richard  leads  us  to  infer,  that  surely 
is  a  valid  reason  for  pitying,  not  for  hating,  him." 

"Suspend  your  judgment  yet  a  while,"  Archie  de- 
claimed in  his  finest  Shakespearian  manner.  "Wait  till 


200         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

you  see  him,  my  dear  Miss  Garside,  and  perhaps  even 
your  charity  will  take  wings  and  fly  away.  Who  is  the 
first  contestant,  Richard?" 

"A  violinist  chap  named  Isaac  Abrahamovitz." 

"Race  unknown,"  remarked  Archie  Telfer. 

"And  the  second?"  Betty  inquired. 

"Another  violinist — Patrick  O'Rourke." 

"A  Frenchman  from  Cork.    Next?" 

"A  pianist — Guiseppe  Bartellomeo." 

"A  spaghetti-eater.  Well,  God  be  good  to  all  of 
them." 

"Last  of  the  instrumentalists — myself.  Then,  Miss 
Garside." 

Betty  leaned  forward  excitedly. 

"They  are  about  to  begin,  Dick." 

The  two  rooms,  noisy  with  voices  but  a  moment  ago, 
were  hushed  and  still.  In  front  of  the  platform  sat  Mr. 
Telfer  and  the  Direktor,  and  in  a  huge  armchair,  seated 
so  that  the  back  of  the  chair  hid  him  from  Betty's  view, 
sat  Stanley  Earlcote.  She  watched  the  chair  fascinat- 
edly, hoping  that  his  head  might  appear.  She  felt  a 
singular  curiosity  to  know  what  the  musical  pope,  whose 
judgment  all  deferred  to,  looked  like.  Everybody  was 
now  seated,  except  the  three  liveried  footmen,  who,  one 
by  one,  effaced  thmselves  through  the  double  entrance 
door  leading  to  the  hall.  Then,  suddenly,  the  odd  sen- 
sation came  over  Betty  that  sometimes  comes  in  a  dimly 
lighted  room,  and  for  a  moment  she  seemed  transplanted 
from  the  world  of  reality  to  the  realm  of  dreams,  for 
there,  against  the  doors  stood  two  figures  which  Betty 
had  not  noticed  before,  two  turbaned  figures  in  Oriental 
costume,  standing  so  immovably  still  that  for  the  space 
of  five  seconds  Betty  thought  they  were  figures  carved 
in  wood  or  statues  cast  in  bronze  or  hewn  out  of  stone 
and  merely  part  and  parcel  of  the  strange  paraphernalia 
that  littered  the  room. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         201 

"Look,"  she  whispered  to  Archie  Telfer,  "are  they 
real ?" 

Archie  nodded,  smiled  gaily,  and  whispered : 

"They  are  Dushka  and  Hahdjan,  Earlcote's  Hindu 
servants.  He  cannot  walk  any  distance  without  their 
assistance,  you  know." 

Betty  had  not  known,  and  her  new  knowledge  unac- 
countably sent  a  chill  down  her  back,  and  rilled  her  with 
a  throbbing,  fascinated  interest.  Her  glances  alternated 
as  between  two  magnets  from  the  back  of  Earlcote's 
chair  to  his  two  servants.  She  began  to  wish  that  she 
had  taken  Richard's  advice,  and  had  made  some  excuse 
for  not  singing.  She  began  to  fear  this  man  without 
knowing  him.  His  very  servants  exuded  an  atmosphere 
of  subtle,  menacing  malignancy.  Incredibly  still  they 
stood,  like  well-trained  supernumeraries  in  some  Ori- 
ental extravaganza,  the  bizarre  lavishness  of  their  East- 
ern dress  heightening  the  fantastic  weirdness  which  was 
engulfing  Betty. 

The  audience  began  applauding — the  good-natured, 
meaningless  applause  extended  as  an  amenity  of  greet- 
ing, a  sort  of  aural  handshake,  to  a  public  performer. 
Isaac  Abrahamovitz,  a  swarthy  young  Hebrew  of  de- 
cidedly prepossessing  exterior,  made  his  bow,  and  waited 
for  the  accompanist  to  begin. 

He  had  not  played  for  more  than  five  minutes  when  a 
sharp  voice — Earlcote's  voice,  since  it  emanated  from 
behind  the  chair — cried: 

"Stop  it,  stop  it." 

The  young  man,  abashed  and  perplexed,  thinking  he 
had  misunderstood,  after  a  momentary  break,  continued 
his  playing.  Again  the  metallic  voice  of  Earlcote 
clanged  through  the  room. 

"Stop  it— stop  it!" 

Isaac  Abrahamovitz,  looking  amazed  rather  than  em- 
barrassed, came  to  a  dead  stop.  The  accompanist  hur- 


202         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ried  on  for  a  bar  or  two,  then,  perceiving  that  something 
was  wrong,  stopped  also.  The  voice  of  Earlcote,  each 
note  of  which  sounded  like  metal  ringing  upon  metal, 
rasped : 

"My  advice  to  you  is  to  go  back  to  a  musical  kinder- 
garten for  a  while." 

The  insult  was  so  gratuitous  and  so  unexpected  that 
young  Abrahamovitz,  utterly  at  sea,  for  a  few  seconds 
stared  in  silence  at  the  man  who  had  hurled  it  at  him. 
Then,  without  a  word,  he  left  the  platform. 

Mr.  Telfer  and  Direktor  Markheim  looked  at  each 
other  with  faces  that  were  worth  studying.  They 
glanced  at  each  other  questioningly,  and  they  glanced 
apologetically  and  commiseratingly  at  the  victim  of  Earl- 
cote's  brutality,  but  they  dared  offer  no  protest. 

Patrick  O'Rourke,  the  second  violinist,  stepped  upon 
the  platform.  The  jaw  of  his  handsome  Irish  face  was 
set  to  a  bulldog  pattern. 

"If  Earlcote  dares  do  the  same  over  again,"  Betty 
whispered  to  Archie,  "something  is  going  to  happen.  He 
looks  as  if  he  would  like  to  kill  Earlcote." 

"He  may  think  so,"  Archie  whispered  back,  "but  he'll 
change  his  mind  quick  enough  once  Earlcote  looks  at 
him." 

Young  O'Rourke  had  begun  playing.  Betty  thought 
he  played  very  well  and  with  much  feeling.  But  sud- 
denly, without  warning,  as  before,  came  Earlcote's  com- 
mand: 

"Stop  it— stop  it !" 

O'Rourke  heard  him  perfectly,  but  went  on  playing, 
glaring  defiance  from  the  platform  at  Earlcote.  Again 
Earlcote  snarled  out  his  command,  and  again  O'Rourke 
defied  him.  Suddenly  a  stick,  wielded  by  Earlcote's 
hand,  began  beating  upon  the  platform,  splitting 
O'Rourke's  playing  into  a  series  of  jarring,  discordant 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         203 

sounds.  O'Rourke  stopped,  and  shook  his  fist  at  Earl- 
cote,  whose  voice  rasped  out : 

"You  use  your  violin  as  if  it  were  a  nutmeg-grater. 
Off  with  you." 

For  one  moment  it  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  a 
scuffle,  so  belligerently  did  the  young  Irishman  glare 
down  upon  his  verbal  assailant.  Then  suddenly  his  bel- 
ligerency changed  into  disgust,  almost  terror.  Mutter- 
ing something,  he  turned  and  went  from  the  platform. 

This  time  Telfer  and  the  Direktor  interfered.  They 
bent  over  Earlcote's  chair,  both  speaking  at  the  same 
time.  What  they  said  was  not  heard,  for  throughout 
the  room  a  hubbub  of  voices  arose.  Whatever  their 
little  professional  jealousies  may  be,  professional  folk 
are  courteous  souls,  and  indignation  ran  high.  They 
were  protesting  in  no  uncertain  way  in  French,  German, 
Italian,  Spanish.  They  were  reading  Earlcote  a  polyglot 
riot  act,  and  their  gestures  seemed  to  indicate  that  they 
contemplated  throwing  him  out  of  the  room. 

Suddenly  the  Direktor,  seizing  a  baton,  rapped  upon 
the  platform.  The  undercurrent  of  voices  was  hushed, 
and  finally  died  away. 

"Signer  Guiseppe  Bartellomeo  will  now  favor  us,"  he 
said. 

The  Italian  was  a  fragile-looking  youth  of  about  three 
and  twenty,  who  looked  badly  scared.  He  was  per- 
mitted to  play  all  of  the  Barcarole  he  had  selected  as  his 
first  piece.  When  he  finished,  Earlcote  began : 

"I  beg  to  suggest,  my  young  friend,  that  you  learn  to 
use  the  piano  more  gently.  It  is  not  a  kettledrum. 
Expressive  playing  is  due  not  to  muscular  strength  but 
to  feeling.  You  need  not  play  your  second  selection. 
You  are  not  ripe  for  a  European  scholarship." 

The  Italian,  thankful  to  have  come  off  so  easily,  made 
his  escape  from  the  improvised  stage.  Betty  became 


204         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

intolerably  nervous.  She  shifted  her  chair,  and  in  doing 
so,  caught  sight  of  Earlcote  for  the  first  time.  She 
suppressed  a  cry  of  horror  only  with  difficulty,  and  un- 
consciously, as  if  for  protection,  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  Archie,  who  was  not  slow  to  take  it,  pressing  it  caress- 
ingly; but  she,  trembling  violently  from  the  shock  which 
the  sight  of  Earlcote  had  communicated  to  her,  was  not 
even  aware  of  the  liberty  of  which  Archie  was  availing 
himself. 

The  face  of  Earlcote  was  the  most  hideous  face  she 
had  ever  seen.  His  complexion  was  very  pale,  the  com- 
plexion of  an  Octoroon  or  a  Creole.  There  was  not  a 
vestige  of  color  in  either  cheeks  or  lips,  but  the  tip  of  the 
nose  was  faintly  pink,  by  which  token  those  who  hated 
him  pretended  to  establish  his  negro  ancestry.  The 
small,  greenish-gray  eyes  had  no  brilliancy,  but  were 
dull  and  heavy,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dead  fish.  The  entire 
head  of  Earlcote  was  as  grotesque,  as  repulsive,  and  as 
suggestive  of  evil  as  the  heads  of  gargoyles  which  are 
found  on  all  mediaeval  churches,  those  fictitious  mon- 
sters so  hideous  to  look  upon  that  the  onlooker  cannot 
gaze  upon  them,  though  they  are  presentments  of  mon- 
strous forms  that  never  existed,  without  emotions  of  dis- 
tress and  loathing.  Hideous  as  was  the  face  of  Stanley 
Earlcote,  his  body  was  more  repulsive  still.  As  he  sat 
there,  hunched  together  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  com- 
fortable chair  which  had  been  placed  for  him,  he  seemed 
an  invertebrate  mass  of  flesh, — flesh  without  underlying 
structure  of  bones  to  hold  erect,  to  dignify,  to  ennoble 
into  purpose  and  dynamic  force  and  form. 

His  one  hand  lay  inert  and  motionless  upon  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  but  it  seemed  not  the  hand  of  a  human 
being,  rather  the  monstrous  conception  of  some  weirdly 
imaginative  artist  depicting  some  defunct  specimen  of 
near-man  that  existed  before  Adam,  a  specimen  of  a 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         205 

species  so  outrageous  that  nature  had  mercifully  wiped 
it  away  from  the  sane  and  beautiful  earth.  His  ringers 
were  hideous  stumps,  the  knuckles,  where  the  fingers 
join  the  hand,  were  gnarled  and  contorted  and  twisted. 

"Good  Heavens,"  whispered  Betty.  "That  thing,  that 
monster,  that  prodigy  to  judge  her  Richard !" 

Archie  looked  at  her  feelingly.  She  thought  only  of 
Richard,  not  of  herself,  but  Archie  thought  he  detected 
in  her  an  acute  attack  of  stage  fright,  and  since  even  he, 
the  Adonis,  the  Sun-God,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  men  who 
adorned  the  stage,  had  experienced  that  species  of  tor- 
ment, he  felt  sorry  for  her. 

"Don't  get  stagitis,  whatever  you  do,"  he  whispered, 
pressing  her  hand.  It  was  purely  by  a  reflex  action  that 
Betty  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  for  she  was  as  un- 
conscious of  the  fact  that  Archie  had  been  holding  it 
as  of  the  fact  that  she  herself  had  extended  it  to  him. 

"There  is  Richard  now,"  she  murmured. 

Richard,  looking  pale  and  exaggeratedly  composed, 
made  his  best  bow,  seated  himself  and  began.  He  had 
chosen  one  movement  from  Beethoven's  Sonata,  Op.  53, 
to  be  followed  by  Chopin's  Funeral  March.  In  view  of 
Earlcote's  summary  measures,  it  was,  of  course,  doubt- 
ful whether  he  would  be  permitted  to  play  his  second 
selection.  Betty  felt  an  intolerable  nervousness  surging 
up  in  her  as  she  watched  Richard.  To  her  surprise,  he 
was  perfectly  self-possessed  and  played  as  authorita- 
tively as  at  home.  If  he  was  nervous,  it  was  not  appar- 
ent in  his  playing.  And  his  interpretation,  to  which  he 
had  given  months  of  study,  was  emphatic  and  lucid. 

Betty,  satisfied  that  all  was  well  with  her  Dick,  gave 
her  attention  to  Earlcote.  As  she  watched  him  while 
he  listened  to  Richard's  playing,  a  curtain  seemed  lifted 
from  that  evil  countenance.  A  look  of  alertness  came 
into  the  dull,  dead  eyes;  and  the  colorless  mouth,  which 


206         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

before  had  seemed  a  mere  slit  in  the  gray  face,  was 
pursed  as  in  token  of  subtle  satisfaction.  She  felt  cer- 
tain from  watching  Earlcote's  face  that  Richard  was 
playing  well,  very,  very  well  indeed,  and  that  he,  at 
least,  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Earlcote.  But  suddenly 
the  expression  of  satisfaction  on  Earlcote's  face  changed 
and  was  succeeded  by  an  ignoble  look  of  malice,  cun- 
ning and  deadly  hatred.  The  inert,  malformed  body 
seemed  to  become  infused  with  malevolent  energy. 

Betty  was  perplexed.  Had  Richard  made  some  mis- 
take. Was  his  nervousness  getting  the  upper  hand,  to 
the  detriment  of  his  playing?  She  divided  her  attention 
between  Richard's  playing  and  Earlcote's  face,  riveting 
her  eyes  upon  the  man  who  was  to  judge  her  lover  and 
decide  his  future.  Suddenly  she  clenched  her  hands  in 
impotent  anger.  She  understood  the  expression  on  Stan- 
ley Earlcote's  face  now.  Love  made  the  simple,  inex- 
perienced, artless  little  girl  clairvoyant.  Oh,  yes,  she 
understood!  Let  Stanley  Earlcote  now  have  the  temer- 
ity to  criticize  her  Richard's  playing! 

"Play  the  next  piece,"  rasped  the  discordantly  harsh 
voice  of  Earlcote.  Richard,  who  had  risen  to  acknowl- 
edge the  plentiful  applause  accorded  him,  reseated  him- 
self and  played  Chopin's  Funeral  March,  played  it  som- 
berly, delicately,  intelligently.  Betty  was  jubilant.  She 
revised  her  estimate  of  Earlcote.  He  had  asked  Richard 
to  play  his  second  selection,  so  that  he  was  just  after  all. 
Probably  the  others  had  played  vilely,  and  the  man, 
being  a  monumental  genius  himself,  could  not  tolerate 
mediocrity  in  others.  Such  things  had  been.  She  had 
misinterpreted  the  expression  in  his  face,  and  in  her 
heart  she  asked  his  pardon.  But  when  she  looked  at 
him  there  welled  up  in  her  anew  repugnance  and  loath- 
ing— a  hatred  bitter  and  deadly,  corroding  and  poison- 
ous. She  tried  to  reason  with  herself.  Never  before 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         207 

had  she  been  caught  in  the  toils  of  so  unreasonable  and 
unjustified  a  feeling  as  this,  and  she  was  a  little  ashamed 
of  its  virulence  and  of  her  inability  to  cope  with  it. 

Richard  had  finished.  Once  more  there  was  a  salvo 
of  applause,  and  when  this  died  away  Earlcote's  voice 
rang  out  clear  and  cold : 

"You  have  a  marvelous  facility  of  touch,  marvelous. 
Your  phrases  are  cleanly  trimmed.  But  that  is  all  that 
can  be  said  in  favor  of  your  playing.  You  play  with  as 
much  expression  as  an  automaton.  You  pride  yourself, 
very  evidently,  upon  your  intellectual  playing — don't 
interrupt  me.  I  know  what  I  know." 

Richard's  face  was  ghostlike  in  its  pallor  as  he  an- 
swered : 

"I  certainly  think  that  the  interpreter  ought  to  at- 
tempt to  make  intelligible  to  the  audience  the  composer's 
ideas." 

"Composer's  ideas !  Nonsense."  Earlcote's  voice  was 
terrible.  He  waved  his  hideous  hands  to  and  fro  as  if 
to  emphasize  what  he  was  saying.  "Ideas, — so  that  is 
what  music  exists  for — to  make  ideas  intelligible.  It  is 
the  fashion,  nowadays,  I  know,  to  talk  of  musical  ideas 
and  color  in  music.  Music,  my  friend,  is  great  enough 
to  stand  on  its  own  merits.  It  need  not  borrow  ideas 
from  books,  or  color  from  painting.  No  really  great 
composer  composed  because  he  had  'ideas'  which  he 
wanted  to  render  intelligible.  He  composed  to  give  vent 
to  some  feeling,  an  emotion,  a  love,  a  hate.  By  and  by, 
when  you  begin  to  compose — don't  tell  me  you  won't, 
because  you  will — you  will  probably  try  to  go  Richard 
Strauss  one  better.  He  was  content  to  attempt  to  render 
intelligible  Nietzsche's  'Also  sprach  Zarathustra.'  Per- 
haps you  will  attempt  to  explain  through  the  medium, 
of  music  Kant's  Das  Ding  an  Sich,  I  hope  you  will  suc- 
ceed." 


208         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Richard,  pale  and  erect,  stood  glowering  upon  Earl- 
cote  as  the  latter  poured  forth  his  torrent  of  sarcasm. 
Earlcote  continued : 

"Let  me  show  you  the  mire  into  which  your  intel- 
lectual playing  betrays  you.  You  are  so  hot  on  the 
trail  of  'ideas'  that  you  take  unwarrantable  liberties  with 
the  score.  In  the  Sonata  you  overlaid  the  counterpoint 
of  the  treble  with  emphasis,  you  elaborated  and  embroid- 
ered it,  thereby  degrading  the  cantus  firmus  in  the  left 
hand,  and  rendering  it  wholly  inconspicuous.  That  is 
the  result  of  having  'ideas'  which  you  feel  yourself 
called  upon  to  infuse  in  the  music,  instead  of  contenting 
yourself  to  play  the  music  and  play  it  again  and  again, 
until  the  composer's  mood,  like  a  fiery  cloud,  has  de- 
scended upon  you.  Ideas!" 

"From  what  I  have  read  about  the  interpretation  of 
music," — Richard  began,  but  Earlcote  interrupted  him 
roughly : 

"There  you  are — you  read  about  music — you  haven't 
enough  music  in  you  to  make  you  feel  how  a  thing 
should  be  played.  And  you  pretend  to  be  a  musician,  a 
pianist !  Music,  my  young  friend,  is  meant  to  be  heard, 
not  to  be  read  about.  I  suppose  you  read  your  score 
half  a  dozen  times  before  attempting  to  play  it.  Do 
you  ?  You  read  it  by  the  hour,  and  by  and  by  you  begin 
to  have  'ideas.'  At  such  and  such  a  passage,  you  say 
to  yourself,  'Here  the  composer  meant  to  tell  us  that  he 
believed  in  a  future  life,  and  that  he  based  his  belief  not 
on  Christian  anthropomorphism  but  on  natural  law  in 
the  scientific  and  spiritual  world.  And  then,  at  last,  you 
go  to  the  piano  and  begin  to  play.  Am  I  right?" 

Richard,  white  and  distrait-looking,  answered  not  a 
•word.  Earlcote  continued  his  tirade: 

"There  are  composers  who  compose  on  paper  without 
use  of  any  musical  instrument.  They,  too,  have  ideas, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         209 

not  feelings.  But  music  generates  here,"  he  indicated 
his  heart,  "not  here,"  he  tapped  the  brow  of  his  gargoyle 
head. 

"Then,"  he  continued,  "you  had  the  impertinence  to 
leave  off  the  Finale  from  the  funeral  march.  I  sup- 
pose this  presented  no  new  idea  worth  your  while,  be- 
cause someone  has  been  inconsiderate  enough  to 
describe  it  as  invoking  the  vision  of  the  night  wind 
sweeping  over  graves.  Am  I  right  ?" 

"It  is  not  played  usually,"  said  Richard.  "Therefore 
I  omitted  it." 

Earlcote  paid  no  attention  to  Richard's  reply. 

"So  much  for  your  ability,"  he  said.  "Well,  you,  too, 
will  not  travel  to  Europe  at  the  expense  of  the  Musical 
Progress  League,  not  until  there  is  a  little  more  feeling 
evidenced  in  your  work.  At  present  a  mechanical  piano- 
player  made  by  a  third-rate  manufacturer  and  bought  at 
fourth  hand  for  a  seventh-rate  saloon  in  the  slums  plays 
with  more  expression  than  yourself." 

Richard  drew  himself  to  full  height,  gave  Earlcote  a 
scathing  look  of  contempt,  and  sprang  lightly  down  the 
steps  of  the  platform.  Simultaneously  a  hundred  voices 
were  raised  in  protest. 

"Outrageous!"  cried  one  Spanish  tenor  who  had  set 
all  New  York  by  the  ears  with  his  beautiful  voice.  "Out- 
rageous! He  played  excellently  well." 

"Why,  the  young  man  has  a  touch  that  will  be  golden 
when  time  has  mellowed  it,"  authoritatively  declared  a 
woman  of  about  fifty,  who,  as  Betty  learned  later  on, 
was  the  dean  of  the  foremost  musical  conservatory  of 
the  city.  One  and  all  these  artists,  who  had  been  asked 
to  come  and  listen,  were  constituting  themselves  judges 
not  only  of  the  player,  but  of  the  player's  judge.  It 
was  a  dramatic  scene.  Stage  folks,  almost  all  of  them, 
and  accustomed  to  the  large,  free  gestures  required  by 


210         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

grand  opera,  they  were  backing  up  their  opinions  with 
eloquent  hands.  It  was  a  Babel  of  tongues  and  digits 
that  clamored  about  Earlcote's  chair. 

He  rose  heavily,  supported  by  the  Direktor  and  Mr. 
Telfer,  and,  leaning  against  the  platform,  faced  the 
turbulent  crowd  of  men  and  women,  like  a  mad  dog 
holding  at  bay  its  pursuers. 

"I  have  given  my  honest  opinion,"  he  snapped.  "The 
Herr  Direktor  and  Mr.  Telfer  may  take  it  or  leave  it, 
as  they  please.  Of  course  if  I  am  to  be  disregarded  and 
my  opinion  flaunted,  money  being  spent  where  I  disap- 
prove, I  will  ask  to  retire  at  once,  instantaneously,  from 
the  committee  to  which  I  have  been  appointed." 

Direktor  Markheim  held  out  imploring  hands;  Mr. 
Telfer  looked  supinely  afraid.  It  was  easy  to  see  that 
they  would  not  risk  incurring  the  disaster  with  which 
Earlcote  threatened  to  overwhelm  them  by  taking  de- 
cisive steps  in  Richard's  favor. 

An  unusual  sensation  swept  over  Betty.  Keenly  aware 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  rose.  At  the  moment  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  not  the  timid,  shy  little  girl 
whose  face  looked  out  from  the  mirror  every  morning 
while  she  was  combing  her  hair,  but  an  entirely  different 
person.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  spirit  of  an  older 
woman  had  suddenly  possessed  itself  of  little  Betty's 
body,  and  was  using  it  as  a  mouthpiece.  She  was 
amazed  at  what  was  happening,  and  yet  she  knew  that 
she  could  not  act  otherwise  than  she  was  doing. 

She  stepped  upon  the  first  step  of  the  stairs  leading 
to  the  miniature  stage,  in  order  to  be  able  to  make  her- 
self heard.  Then  addressing  Earlcote,  she  said: 

"You  said  just  now  that  you  gave  your  honest  opinion 
of  Richard  Pryce's  playing.  That  is  not  true.  You 
know  that  he  played  well,  wonderfully  well.  One  could 
read  that  in  your  face  while  he  played.  But  you  pre- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

tend  to  find  his  playing  contemptible,  you  disparage  if, 
because  you  are  jealous  of  him.  That's  all." 

Mr.  Telfer  and  Direktor  Markheim  made  their  way 
to  her  side,  imploring  her  to  be  silent,  but  Betty's  clear 
young  voice  rang  out  triumphantly  above  theirs. 

Earlcote  turned  heavily  and  slowly,  and,  leaning  on 
his  elbow,  looked  at  her.  Betty's  heart  sank  within  her 
as  that  graceless,  flabby,  seared  countenance  was  turned 
Joward  her. 

"And  who  are  you?"  Earlcote  asked. 

"Richard  Pryce's  affianced  wife  and  the  vocal  con- 
testant," Betty  replied.  There  was  a  little  quaver  in 
her  voice,  and  in  her  frantic  nervousness  she  began 
plucking  at  the  roses  she  held  in  her  hand.  The  soft 
white  petals,  bruised  and  crushed,  gave  up  an  enchant- 
ing fragrance,  but  Betty  noticed  it  not.  One  by  one  the 
roses  dropped  from  their  stems,  dismembered  by  the 
girl's  nervous  fingers.  Earlcote  watched  her,  without 
speaking,  until  the  last  petal  had  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
Then  he  spoke. 

"If  you  are  the  vocal  contestant,  perhaps  you  had 
better  sing.  Have  you  also  'Ideas'  about  music?" 

"At  present,"  said  Betty,  "I  haven't  a  single  ideaj 
only  an  emotion." 

"And  that  emotion ?" 

"The  primitive  and  savage  emotion  of  hatred,"  said 
Betty,  shaking  a  little,  and  speaking  the  angry  words  in 
a  very  small  voice  indeed.  "Hatred  for  the  man  who, 
because  he  is  jealous  of  my  Richard's  ability,  is  trying  to 
ruin  his  future." 

Earlcote  laughed. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  speaking  very  gently,  his  me- 
tallic voice  metallic  still  but  chiming  now  like  bells  ring- 
ing across  the  snow.  "I  like  you.  It  is  not  often  any- 
one has  the  courage  to  defy  me."  He  made  an  inviting 


212         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

gesture,  signifying  that  he  wished  Betty  to  step  upon 
the  platform.  It  was  a  gesture  such  as  a  prince  might 
have  employed  in  doing  homage  to  a  queen,  and  this 
astonishing  and  unexpected  gentleness  on  the  part  of 
Earlcote  frightened  Betty  intensely.  She  stared  at  him 
in  alarm. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said,  speaking  more 
gently  still.  His  voice  was  almost  a  caress.  "You  need 
not  be  afraid.  I  do  not  treat  little  white  roses,  little 
white  human  roses,  as  cruelly  as  you  have  treated  the 
white  buds  at  your  breast." 

Only  then  Betty  became  aware  that  she  had  torn 
the  flowers  to  pieces.  She  threw  away  the  stems,  and 
with  the  courage  of  despair  ran  up  the  steps  to  the 
platform.  It  was  only  when  she  stood  beside  the  piano, 
with  the  accompanist  already  playing  the  introductory 
bars,  that  Betty  became  poignantly  aware  of  the  con- 
spicuous part  she  had  allowed  herself  to  play  before  all 
these  celebrated  men  and  women.  For  one  moment  she 
thought  she  must  die  of  shame.  Then,  remembering 
she  had  publicly  proclaimed  herself  to  be  Richard's  fu- 
ture wife,  she  essayed  to  do  her  best. 

She  sang  Schumann's  "Schlummerlied"  and  "Erlkoe- 
nig,"  and,  so  nervous  was  she,  she  expected  Earlcote  to 
interrupt  her  momentarily.  She  dared  not  look  at  him 
for  fear  of  reading  contempt  and  disdain  in  those  sneer- 
ing features.  But  when  she  had  finished,  he  said : 

"The  evening  has  not  been  wholly  wasted.  At  last 
we  have  heard  an  artist  who  is  worth  the  expenditure 
of  a  small  fortune.  This  child  has  a  golden  voice,  a 
voice  all  limpid  sweetness  and  rich  purity  and  unfeigned 
strength.  We  will  make  a  great  singer  of  you,  little 
white  rose." 

Betty  stared  down  upon  Earlcote  and  the  sea  of 
friendly  faces  that  confronted  her  incredulously.  There 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         213 

was  incessant  applause  mingled  with  hisses  because  it 
was  apparent  that  Earlcote  wished  to  say  more.  The 
strange,  potent  agency  known  as  the  psychology  of  the 
masses  was  at  work,  and  from  being  an  object  of  detes- 
tation because  of  his  brutality  to  the  four  young  men, 
Earlcote  suddenly  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  hero  in 
the  eyes  of  those  present  because  he  was  treating  with 
generous  courtesy  the  young  girl  who  had  offered  him 
a  mortal  affront. 

"I  wish  to  talk  further  with  you,"  said  Earlcote  to 
Betty.  "You  have  not  had  much  teaching,  have  you  ?" 

"Hardly  any." 

Betty  wanted  to  tell  him  then  and  there  that  she  had 
no  intention  of  becoming  a  singer.  But  some  mysteri- 
ous power  forced  back  her  words.  She  wanted  to  cry 
out  and  tell  Earlcote  that  she  wanted  none  of  his  kind- 
ness, but  words  failed  her.  She  wished  ardently  that 
he  would  be  rough  and  rude  with  her  as  he  had  been 
with  Richard;  his  gentleness — that  intolerably  caressing 
note  in  his  voice — was  more  of  an  assault  than  any  verbal 
brutality  would  have  been. 

Earlcote  was  speaking  again. 

"Before  we  have  our  personal  talk,"  he  said,  "I  am 
going  to  do  for  you  what  I  would  not  do  for  any  other 
man  or  woman  here  present ;  what  I  refused  to  do  at  the 
request  of  the  German  Emperor  or  the  Czar — though 
each  of  those  potentates  offered  me  a  small  fortune.  I 
am  going  to  play  for  you." 

Like  a  serpent,  undulating,  swift,  now  here  and  now 
there,  word  ran  through  the  assemblage  that  Earlcote 
was  going  to  play.  They  proclaimed  it  in  all  languages : 
"He  is  going  to  play!"  "Er  wird  spielen!"  "II  nous 
donnera  quelque  chose!"  "Come!  Suona!"  "El  va  a 
tocar!" 

They  were  mad  with  joy.    They  all  but  embraced  each 


214         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

other.  Their  delight  approached  frenzy.  "Earlcote  is 
going  to  play!" 

Dushka  and  Hahdjan  were  summoned,  and  they 
helped  him  up -the  stairs.  Terrific  applause  resounded 
as  he  seated  himself  at  the  piano. 

"I  want  no  applause,"  Earlcote  rasped.  "I  am  not 
playing  for  you  or  you  or  you."  Swiftly  the  hideous 
hands  emphasized  the  phrase  by  pointing  to  two  or  three 
of  those  whose  applause  was  loudest.  "I  am  playing 
because  it  suits  me  to  play  for  a  little  white  human 
rose." 

He  poised  his  hands  in  midair,  then  faced  Betty  once 
more. 

"There  are  excellent  folks,  musicians  some  of  them, 
who  think  that  the  piano  is  not  a  musical  instrument  at 
all,  and  that  its  only  legitimate  function  is  to  help  com- 
posers evolve  the  melodies  of  the  various  instruments 
while  fixing  them  on  paper.  Those  good  folks  forget 
that  in  conceding  the  piano's  value  in  orchestration,  they 
tacitly  admit  that  every  voice  in  the  orchestra  is  con- 
tained in  the  piano.  And  that  is  the  truth.  You  shall 
hear. 

"One  word  more.  Do  not  think  that  I  am  going  to 
play  because  you  accused  me  of  being  jealous  of  that 
whipper-snapper.  I  play  to  please  you,  because  your 
singing  pleased  me." 

He  ran  the  hideous  mis  formed  stumps,  that  served 
him  for  fingers,  across  the  keys  of  the  piano. 

"Because  it  fatigues  me  greatly  to  play,"  he  said,  "I 
can  play  you  one  piece  only.  I  chose  Chopin's  funeral 
march,  complete  with  the  finale.  After  you  have  heard 
me  play  that,  I  think  you  will  not  accuse  me  of  being 
jealous  of  any  pianist,  dead  or  alive,  past  or  present, 
again." 

He  had  not  played  a  dozen  bars  before  Betty  under- 


THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART         215 

stood  the  excitement  of  those  present  upon  hearing  that 
Earlcote  would  play.  Richard  had  taken  her  to  hear 
many  famous  pianists,  but  she  realized  now  that  the 
others  were  the  merest  tyros  compared  to  Earlcote.  He 
had  spoken  truly  when  he  said  that  every  voice  of  the 
orchestra  lurks  in  the  piano  and  only  waits  to  be  awak- 
ened to  the  pianist's  touch.  Even  as  she  stood  watching 
him  play,  it  seemed  incredible  to  the  girl  that  this  incon- 
ceivable volume  of  melody,  this  tempestuous  flood  of 
sound,  this  ocean  of  harmony  should  be  drawn  from 
one  single  instrument.  The  gentle  voice  of  the  flute  was 
heard,  the  plaintive  wail  of  the  oboe,  the  sound  of 
argent-throated  chimes,  the  fierce  braying  of  the  kettle- 
drum, the  insidious  sweetness  of  French  horn  and  bas- 
soon, the  sonorous  loveliness  of  the  'cello;  even  the 
pizzicato  of  violins  rose  as  by  magic  from  under  Earl- 
cote's  fingers.  How  did  he  do  it  ?  It  was  the  prodigious 
feat  of  a  supreme  musical  genius.  Presently  her  won- 
der at  the  plenitude  of  witching  sound  which  he  was 
extracting,  as  by  magic,  from  the  one  miserable  instru- 
ment, ceased.  For  a  few  moments  a  vague  thought  per- 
sisted that  it  was  monstrous  that  those  deformed  fingers 
should  be  capable  of  producing  music  so  heavenly.  Even 
that  thought  died  away.  She  had  the  sensation  of  hav- 
ing been  lulled  asleep  on  a  vast  bosom  of  sound.  Thought 
abandoned  her,  sensations  only  rippled  and  thrilled 
through  her.  She  crept  closer  and  closer  to  an  elusive, 
intangible  something  which  she  knew  intuitively  was 
her  own  soul.  But  she  could  not  think.  She  tried  to 
rouse  herself,  to  translate  her  sensations  into  words. 
Language  eluded  her,  leaving  her  the  prey  of  myriad 
emotions,  bizarre,  gigantic,  untried.  Suddenly  fear  came 
upon  her — a  horrid,  weird,  ghastly  fear.  Earlcote  was 
playing  the  finale,  and  Betty  shuddered  as  a  sleep-walker 
may  shudder  who  at  midnight  wakes  to  find  himself 


216         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

wandering  among  graves,  with  the  night  wind  and  fall- 
ing leaves  as  his  sole  companion. 

The  music  ceased.  Betty  came  back  to  time  and  space 
as  from  a  trance.  Dead  silence  reigned — not  a  soul 
applauded.  The  sensation  Earlcote  had  created  was  so 
startling  as  to  preclude  applause. 

Earlcote  had  risen  from  the  piano  and  was  speaking. 
He  addressed  Betty  directly.  It  no  longer  seemed  singu- 
lar to  her  that  he  should  address  himself  solely  to  her. 

"They  do  not  applaud,"  he  said.  "Nor  do  you.  That 
is  not  out  of  deference  for  my  wish,  but  because  I  have 
made  them  forget  themselves,  because  I  have  made 
them  forget  the  habit  of  rewarding  the  trick  dog  by 
making  a  noise."  A  low,  mocking  laugh  came  from  his 
lips.  "No  one  can  do  just  that  but  I,  Stanley  Earl- 
cote." 

"It  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  I  ever  heard,"  Betty 
said  truthfully. 

"Really?  Then  you  have  modified  your  judgment — 
you  realize  I  am  not  jealous,  eh?  Now,  we  will  have 
our  little  private  talk,  you  and  I." 

His  Hindus  helped  him  down  from  the  platform,  and 
carried  rather  than  assisted  him  to  his  chair.  A  change 
had  come  over  him.  Exhausted,  his  face  was  paler 
than  before,  his  lips  were  drawn  into  a  sinuous  curve 
with  an  intense  effort  of  some  sort.  His  eyes  closed  and 
he  sat  in  silence  in  the  large  armchair.  Fascinatedly, 
Betty  stared  at  him.  Loathing,  repugnance,  disgust  were 
uppermost  in  her  mind,  but  she  could  not  drag  her  eyes 
away  from  the  man  who  inspired  these  emotions. 
Finally  he  spoke,  his  eyes  still  closed.  Betty  came  and 
stood  near  his  chair.  The  others  tactfully  turned  away 
and  formed  little  animated  groups  among  themselves. 

"You  have  a  wonderful  voice,  Miss  Garside.  But  you 
ill-treat  it.  You  use  it  as  if  it  were  a  mechanical  toy. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         217 

There  is  no  soul  in  it.  That  is  wicked.  A  voice  such 
as  yours  without  feeling  and  depth  behind  it  is  a  mon- 
strosity, a  worse  monstrosity  than  myself." 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  Betty's  face. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  love?"  he  said. 

"I  told  you  before  that  I  am  engaged  to  Richard 
Pryce." 

"Engaged,  yes.  One  marries  for  a  host  of  reasons 
other  than  love.  Do  you  happen  to  love  the  whipper- 
snapper  ?" 

"Yes,  devotedly." 

"Devotedly?     Hm!     Passionately?" 

Betty  flushed  furiously. 

"I  consider  the  question  an  impertinence,"  she  said. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  speaking  as  viciously  as  she 
did,  and  she  was  aware  of  it,  but  she  wanted  to  defy 
this  creature,  this  self-dubbed  monstrosity  who  played 
like  a  god. 

"A  physician  may  ask  any  question  he  likes,"  Earl- 
cote  responded  quietly.  "And  I  am  the  physician  of 
your  singing  voice.  So,  if  you  please,  answer  me.  Do 
you  love  the  whipper-snapper  passionately?" 

Betty  bit  her  lip. 

"Passion,"  she  said  slowly,  "is  a  thing  I  despise.  I 
have  never  felt  it,  and  never  intend  to  feel  it.  I  should 
hate  myself  if  I  did.  One  cannot  expect  anything  else 
from  men,  but  women  should  be  above  it." 

Earlcote  laughed  long  and  mockingly.  But  he  did  not 
sneer.  And  the  fact  that  he  again  treated  her  mildly 
infuriated  Betty  anew.  She  was  insolent,  brutal,  im- 
pertinent to  him,  and  he,  who  outrageously  insulted 
everyone  else,  remained  gentle  and  pacific  under  her  most 
stinging  remarks  and  unmistakably  vicious  retorts. 

"You  have  much  to  learn,"  he  said  finally.  "There 
are  thorns  on  the  stem  of  the  white  rose,  and  she  knows 


218         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

how  to  use  them.  Passion,  Miss  Garside,  slumbers  in 
the  heart  of  all,  and  some  day  it  will  awaken  in  you.  It 
will  not  be  to  your  detriment.  You  wish  to  be  a  famous 
singer  ?" 

"I  do  not." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  do  not.  Richard  Pryce  entered  my  name  without 
consulting  me,  and  I  could  not  withdraw  without  stulti- 
fying him.  I  do  not  intend  accepting  the  scholarship. 
It  is  rightfully  Richard's,  at  any  rate." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  throw 
away  this  splendid  opportunity  because  you  love  a  silly, 
incompetent  boy  so  devotedly?  Or  is  it  rather  because 
you  are  too  lazy  to  put  forth  the  exertion  which  is  un- 
avoidable in  the  career  of  every  great  artist?" 

"You  certainly  ask  the  most  extraordinary  questions." 

"I  ask  questions  that  go  beneath  the  surface,  that  eat 
right  into  the  human  soul  and  bite  into  its  marrow.  It 
is  a  habit  of  mine  to  penetrate  to  the  holy  of  holies. 
Witness  my  playing.  Well,  I  am  waiting  for  your  an- 
swer?" 

"I  have  never  thought  about  it,  really,"  said  Betty 
gravely.  "I  love  Dicky,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call 
him  a  whipper-snapper  and  other  things.  I  want  him 
to  go  abroad  and  have  a  big  career.  And  I  hate  you 
for  giving  an  unfavorable  verdict." 

"Well,  well — you  will  get  over  that.  By  and  by  you 
will  realize  that  you  are  of  more  consequence  to  your- 
self than  to  anyone  else.  Believe  me,  my  child,  love — 
passion — are  valuable,  because  they  help  us  delve  down 
to  the  very  bottom  of  our  own  souls.  We  do  not  know 
ourselves  as  we  are  until  love  has  touched  us.  And 
when  love  comes  to  you,  give  yourself  up  to  it,  speak 
about  it,  write  about  it,  read  about  it,  dream  about  it, 
for  days,  nights,  weeks,  months  and  years,  but  do  not 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         219 

make  the  fatal  mistake  of  forgetting  your  emotions. 
Retain  those.  Gather  them  in  the  precious  chalice  of 
your  soul,  and  when  you  sing  great  music,  the  priceless 
drops  of  recollection  which  you  have  collected  in  that 
precious  cup  will  filter  one  by  one  into  your  voice.  No 
woman  can  be  a  great  singer  unless  she  has  loved.  Love 
alone  unbars  the  citadel  of  the  universe  for  women,  even 
more  than  for  men." 

Betty  looked  at  him  in  helpless  bewilderment. 

"You  speak  like  a  poem,"  she  said  with  grudging 
admiration.  "But  I  will  never  change." 

Earlcote  regarded  her  quizzically. 

"You're  a  normal  woman,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 
"You  were  born  of  normal  parents?  You're  not  an 
artificial  womanikin,  made  of  wood  and  animated  by 
ingenious  clockwork?  You're  flesh  and  blood,  aren't 
you?  Being  all  that,  the  passions  of  womankind  are 
bound  to  come  to  you,  and  once  you  are  married,  and 
know  the  ecstasy  that  passionate  kisses  bring,  then  there 
will  enter  into  your  voice  the  quality  it  now  lacks — the 
one  quality  it  needs  to  make  it  perfect." 

"How  dare  you  say  such  things  to  me?"  Betty  de- 
manded. "How  dare  you?" 

"I  dare  many  things,  when  I  wish  to  gain  my  point. 
You  are  right.  You  must  not  go  to  Europe.  You  will 
remain  here,  in  New  York,  and  I  will  teach  you — I, 
Stanley  Earlcote — and  I  will  make  of  you  the  greatest 
singer  of  the  century." 

"Never." 

"How  you  hate  me,  you  little  white  thing." 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"I  will  play  for  you.  I  will  play  for  you  so  often 
and  so  sweetly  that  to  please  me  and  because  you  want 
to  hear  me  play  again,  you  will  be  willing  to  learn  to 
sing  with  me." 


£20         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"Yes,  you  will.  Do  you  realize  what  a  sacrifice  I 
made  when  I  played  for  you?"  He  lifted  his  poor 
maimed  hands.  "Look — I  am  in  intolerable  anguish 
because  I  played.  I  will  suffer  all  night." 

"I  am  glad  of  it." 

For  the  second  time  that  evening  a  woman,  older  and 
more  experienced  than  herself,  seemed  to  have  usurped 
dominion  of  her  body  and  organs  of  speech.  Perhaps 
her  future  self,  such  as  she  would  be  after  life  had 
emptied  a  phial  of  cruelty  into  her  soul  to  subsist  side 
by  side  with  the  compassion  which  was  her  heritage 
as  a  woman. 

She  knew  that  her  reply  had  been  monstrous,  un- 
feminine,  insensate,  and  even  while  she  voiced  it.  she 
was  sorry  for  her  words. 

Earlcote  did  not  reply.  A  smile  seemed  to  flicker 
about  the  thin,  colorless  lips. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  stammered.  "Please  forgive  me — 
it  was  quite,  quite  horrid  of  me  to  say  that." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  passion  in  you,"  he  replied 
enigmatically,  "and  it  will  wake,  perhaps,  who  knows,  it 
is  waking  now."  He  looked  at  her  shrewdly,  his  little 
cat's  eyes  agleam  like  beryl  or  green  jade. 

"Mr.  Telfer  tells  me  you  are  one  of  his  pianists," 
Earlcote  continued.  "I  am  coming  to  the  store  some  day, 
and  then  we  will  have  a  long  talk.  I  am  too  tired  now 
to  argue  with  you  any  longer.  Good-night,  and  pleas- 
ant dreams." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  but  Betty  shrank  visibly  from 
the  clasp  of  that  deformed  hand.  Her  horror  of  it  was 
pictured  in  her  face.  She  sought  to  control  her  features. 
She  was  sorry  that  she  was  showing  the  aversion,  the 
overwhelming  physical  repugnance  which  she  experi- 
enced at  the  mere  thought  of  having  to  touch  that  hid- 
eous member,  but  show  it  she  did. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Earlcote  withdrew  his  hand.  Betty's  face  was  crim- 
son. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said  in  a  low,  sub- 
dued voice. 

"You  need  not  be,"  Earlcote  responded.  "I  do  not 
blame  you  for  drawing  back  in  shuddering  horror  from 
touch  of  my  hand.  I  would  not  have  offered  it  had  I 
remembered.  Sometimes,  mercifully,  I  still  forget  that 
they  are  what  they  are,  that  I  am  what  I  am.  Once 
more,  good-night." 

Turning,  Betty  found  Archie  Telfer  at  her  side. 

"I  have  great  news  for  you,"  he  said,  ignoring  Earl- 
cote. "Madame  Hudrazzini  asked  me  to  find  you  and 
bring  you  to  her.  Unfortunately,  in  the  crowd  we  be- 
came separated,  and  I  must  locate  her  before  I  can  take 
you  to  her." 

He  took  Betty  to  a  quiet  corner,  and  then  went  in 
search  of  the  famous  singer. 

Betty's  brain  was  awhirl.  A  host  of  new  emotions 
were  crowding  upon  her.  She  was  bitterly  ashamed  of 
herself  for  having  spoken  so  brutally  to  Earlcote.  He 
had  been  gentle  and  kind  to  her,  and  she  had  wantonly 
offered  him  insult  upon  insult.  What  had  possessed 
her  to  do  so?  Then,  with  a  start,  she  remembered  his 
brutality  to  Richard,  and  it  seemed  disloyal  of  her  that 
she  had  forgotten  that  for  even  one  single  second.  She 
.was  glad  now  that  she  had  spoken  with  the  effrontery 
she  had  employed.  She  felt  a  new  access  of  cruelty  and 
hatred,  and  pressing  her  hands  together  as  they  lay  in 
her  lap,  she  wondered  vaguely  at  the  change  which  was 
occurring  in  her. 

Archie  Telfer  was  wandering  about  meanwhile  in 
search  of  the  famous  Italian  soprano.  In  his  perambu- 
lations he  came  upon  Earlcote,  still  lolling  in  his  chair, 
with  closed  eyes.  Archie  Telfer  stopped,  looked  sneer- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ingly  upon  the  recumbent  figure,  and  drawing  up  a 
chair,  sat  down  beside  Earlcote.  He  changed  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  with  the  facility  of  the  expert  actor 
before  addressing  the  great  pianist. 

"Mr.  Earlcote,"  he  asked,  "do  you  really  think  Miss 
Garside's  voice  so  very  wonderful?" 

"Why  should  I  utter  an  untruth?"  Earlcote  opened 
his  eyes  and  glared  venomously  at  Archie. 

Archie  laughed. 

"Honey  and  a  spider's  web  to  catch  a  dainty,  pretty 
little  fly,"  he  said. 

Earlcote  scowled. 

"You  judge  others  by  yourself,  Mr.  Telfer.  The 
girl  has  a  marvelous  voice.  I  am  going  to  teach  her." 

"Has  she  consented?" 

"No,  but  she  will." 

"Not  if  I  know  her." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Why  do  you  say  that?  Do 
you  know  her  very  well?" 

"Not  nearly  well  enough,"  Archie  replied,  giving  a 
peculiar  emphasis  to  the  words  so  as  to  bring  out  their 
double  meaning.  Earlcote  looked  at  him  with  withering 
contempt. 

"Aren't  three  breach  of  promise  suits  enough,  Mr. 
Telfer?"  he  asked  cuttingly. 

"There  are  women  who  would  rather  die  than  bring 
a  suit  of  that  sort,"  Archie  retorted  carelessly.  Earl- 
cote contrived  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"What's  your  object  in  palavering  like  this?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"To  do  you  a  good  turn." 

"Indeed!" 

Archie  raised  his  Jovian  brows  and  intently  regarded 
the  tip  of  his  faultless  patent-leather  boot.  "Miss  Gar- 
side,"  he  said,  "is  devotedly  in  love  with  the  boy  whom 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         223 

you  subjected  to  such  a  merciless  grilling — Richard 
Pryce." 

"Devotedly !  That  is  the  same  expression  she  herself 
used." 

"Proof  positive  that  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 
So  long  as  this  devoted  and  romantic  attachment  con- 
tinues not  you  or  any  man  or  woman  alive  will  contrive 
to  make  her  consider  a  career  for  herself." 

"The  inference?" 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  you  are  usually  shrewd  enough  to  draw 
your  own  inferences.  Yet,  lest  you  accuse  me  of  cow- 
ardice, I  will  dot  the  I  and  cross  the  T.  The  attach- 
ment to  Richard  must  be  broken." 

"And  you  propose,  I  suppose,  to  do  that  by  replacing 
Richard  in  Miss  Garside's  affections?" 

"To  go  about  the  thing  in  that  way  is  impossible. 
Does  that  admission  surprise  you?  At  least  it  proves 
that  I  am  not  the  conceited  jackanapes  I  am  usually 
represented  to  be.  I  am  distinctly  aware  of  my  limita- 
tions. With  a  certain  type  of  woman  I  need  only  ap- 
pear on  the  scene  to  complete  a  conquest.  But  that 
little  white  rose — to  use  your  own  pretty  simile — is 
loyal  to  the  bottom  of  her  little  white  heart.  Richard 
for  her  always  and  forever — unless  Richard  prove  faith- 
less." 

Archie  paused,  and  Earlcote  looked  at  him  search- 
ingly. 

"You  certainly  have  crossed  the  T,"  he  said.  "Now 
you  had  better  go  ahead  and  dot  the  I." 

"Richard  also  is  loyal  to  his  Betty.  But  alas,  Earl- 
cote, you  and  I,  we  know  the  genus  man.  The  nature 
of  the  beast  makes  an  occasional  wallowing  in  the  mire 
almost  inevitable.  Now,  if  Richard's  affections  might 
be  alienated,  I  say  might — you  perceive  the  point?" 

"I  see.  Delightfully  diabolical,  Telfer.  And  once 
Richard's  affections  have  been  alienated,  what  then?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"With  Richard  out  of  the  way,  who  would  stand  the 
better  chance  with  her,  you  or  I?" 

Earlcote  winced,  but  recovered  himself  quickly. 

"Her  voice,"  he  said  quietly,  "is  all  I  want." 

"Her  voice,"  said  Archie  Telfer,  "is  not  what  I  want. 
You  are  welcome  to  it.  We  shall  not  conflict." 

"What  an  unutterable  knave  you  are." 

"Yet  you  will  profit  by  the  knave's  suggestion,  or  I 
err  greatly  in  my  estimate  of  yourself.  Look  yonder — 
quick." 

Katarina  della  Florenzia,  alias  Kitty  Florence,  was 
going  through  the  room  on  the  arm  of  the  Direktor, 
with  a  half-score  of  adorers  in  her  wake. 

"Well?"  asked  Earlcote.  "What  has  she  got  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Someone  pointed  out  to  me  that  she  slightly  re- 
sembles Miss  Garside.  Possibly  you  have  seen  her 
abroad,  in  Lehar's  operetta — the  latest  one?" 

"Yes." 

"She  took  the  part  of  sweet  seventeen.  Do  you  re- 
member ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"She  need  only  repeat  that  makeup  in  real  life  to 
make  herself  look  so  much  like  Betty  Garside  that  the 
two  might  appear  in  a  sister  act — if  the  stage  were  in 
Miss  Garside's  line." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"You  are  forcing  me  to  dot  the  I  with  a  vengeance, 
Earlcote.  If  Kitty  set  herself  out  to  alienate  Richard's 
affections,  garbed  not  in  silks  and  satins  and  tons  of 
jewelry,  but  in  sprigged  muslin  and  coral  beads,  do  you 
think  she  would  succeed?" 

"You  certainly  are  a  knave  of  the  purest  water,  Tel- 
fer. But  you're  clever,  I'll  admit  that — devilishly 
clever." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         225 

Archie  rose  and  made  Earlcote  a  sweeping  bow. 

"Machiavelli  complimenting  Beelzebub,"  he  said.  "At 
any  rate,  I  have  tipped  you  off,  and  a  word  to  the  wise 
is  sufficient.  Au  revoir,  my  dear  Earlcote." 

Leaving  Earlcote  in  frowning  solitude,  Archie  made 
his  way  through  the  room,  found  Madame  Hudrazzini 
quite  readily  in  the  alcove  where  she  had  been  sitting 
all  the  time,  and  then  went  back  to  Betty.  Having  in- 
troduced Betty  at  last,  he  tactfully  withdrew. 

The  famous  singer  was  a  tall,  large  brunette,  with  a 
brilliantly  sweet  smile.  She  had  the  ineffably  grace- 
ful, bewitching,  ingratiating  manner  of  the  prima  donna 
who  has  been  brought  up  on  bel  canto  and  torrents  of 
nightly  applause. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  to  Betty,  "I  am  enchanted  with 
you.  Yes,  yes,  also  with  your  voice,  which  is  all  Earl- 
cote says,  but  particularly,  carissima,  with  you  and  your 
courage.  You  will  be  a  very  great  singer  some  day, 
much  greater  than  poor  little  Hudrazzini." 

Betty's  ears  tingled. 

"That  could  never  be,"  she  said,  and  because  the  great 
lady  smiled  upon  her  so  adorably,  and  petted  her  hand 
and  cheek,  she  found  courage  to  launch  into  a  longer 
speech  than  she  would  have  trusted  herself  with  ordi- 
narily in  much  less  distinguished  society.  "Do  you  re- 
member the  story  of  one  of  Napoleon's  Marshals, 
Madame  Hudrazzini?  Napoleon  said  of  him,  'It  is  pos- 
sible that  another  man  may  be  as  honest  as  he,  but  more 
honest,  impossible.'  One  might  paraphrase  that  to  apply 
to  your  voice.  Some  day  some  other  soprano  may  be 
found  who  has  a  voice  as  beautiful  as  yours,  but  more 
beautiful — impossible." 

Madame  Hudrazzini  was  so  delighted  with  Betty's 
little  speech  that  she  clapped  her  hands  and  kissed  her 
fingers  as  if  to  waft  a  kiss  to  Betty  with  the  pretty, 


226         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Latin,  curtain-call  gestures  which  made  a  devoted  slave 
of  every  individual  in  her  nightly  audiences. 

"I  am  more  and  more  enchanted,  my  dear,"  she  cried. 
"Will  you  come  to  see  me?  I  am  living  at  the  Astor 
until  I  find  a  suitable  apartment  for  myself.  Yes,  you 
must  come.  When  will  you  start  for  Europe?  Has 
anything  been  decided?  I  saw  you  speaking  to  Earlcote 
for  a  long  time." 

"Mr.  Earlcote  wishes  to  teach  me  himself,"  Betty 
said.  "But  I  have  no  ambition  whatever." 

Madame  Hudrazzini  held  up  her  hands  in  blank 
amazement. 

"Surely  you  will  not  refuse  to  let  Earlcote  teach  you," 
she  said.  "He  is  reputed  to  have  more  musicianship 
than  any  man  or  woman  alive.  After  hearing  him,  I  am 
willing  to  subscribe  to  that." 

"But  I  am  engaged  to  Richard  Pryce." 

"Yes ?" 

"I  wish  to  see  him  happy.  I  want  him  to  make  a 
great  name  for  himself." 

"That  does  not  preclude  the  possibility  of  your  doing 
the  same  for  yourself,  carissima." 

"But  I  do  not  wish  to,"  said  Betty  obstinately. 

Madame  Hudrazzini  took  Betty's  hand  in  hers. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said,  "think  well  before  you  refuse 
Earlcote's  offer.  Let  me  tell  you  a  little  of  my  own 
life.  I  was  desperately  in  love  with  the  man  I  married, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  our  abject  poverty,  I  would 
not  have  continued  on  the  stage,  for  I  loved  him  so 
dearly  that  I  wanted  to  live  only  for  him.  I  resented 
everything  else  as  an  intrusion.  That  is  how  you  feel?" 

"You  understand  me  perfectly,"  said  Betty. 

"Well,  after  a  few  years  my  husband  died.  Then, 
carissima,  I  think  I  would  have  gone  insane  if  it  had 
not  been  for  my  music.  Always  keep  two  interests  in 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         227 

your  life,  a  big  one  and  a  little  one.  For  a  woman,  love 
must  always  be  the  big  interest,  art  the  little  one.  With 
a  man  it  is  the  reverse.  For  him,  no  matter  how  he 
loves,  love  is  a  lesser  thing  to  him  than  his  day's  work. 
That  is  right  and  just,  hard  as  it  may  seem  to  us." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  is  so,"  said  Betty  with  trembling 
lips.  "I  do  not  believe  Richard  puts  his  art  before  me." 

"Possibly  not,"  said  Madame  Hudrazzini  dryly.  "Bui: 
for  us  women,  dear  child,  love  reaches  deeper  than  with 
men,  though  it  touches  us  less  violently.  With  a  man 
passion  is  a  mighty,  majestic,  turbulent  river,  flowing 
tempestuously  within  narrow  limits — all  the  stronger 
perhaps  because  thus  forced  into  narrow  bounds,  but 
leaving  the  adjacent  territory  arid  and  untouched.  With 
a  woman  passion  is  an  expansive  system  of  placid  lakes 
interminably  bound  together  by  canals  and  streams  and 
fed  by  innumerable  rivulets  and  brooks,  which  leave 
not  one  inch  of  ground  untouched,  unfertilized.  The 
most  inaccessible  regions  are  penetrated  into,  contribut- 
ing to  and  receiving  the  most  unexpected  treasures  from 
the  still  waters  of  her  seemingly  mild  passion." 

"Passion,"  said  Betty  vehemently.  "You  mean  love, 
do  you  not?" 

"I  mean  passion,  dear  child ;  for  the  love  of  a  woman 
for  a  man,  if  it  be  the  genuine  feeling  and  not  a  spuri- 
ous one  that  binds  her  to  him,  must  contain  passion  as 
well  as  love." 

Betty  looked  at  the  famous  singer  in  mute  horror. 

"You  are  so  young,  carissima"  Madame  Hudrazzini 
continued.  "You  cannot  understand  as  yet.  Your  eyes 
are  the  eyes  of  a  child.  They  are  clear  and  cold  and 
pure  as  rock  crystal.  The  woman  nature  has  not  yet 
softened  and  subdued  them — has  not  yet  lighted  them 
with  the  inner  flame.  Because  you  are  so  very  young, 
passion  seems  impure  and  unchaste  to  you.  Try  to  look 


228         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

at  it  in  a  different  light.  Think  only  of  the  noble  and 
lofty  emotions  which  a  legitimate  passion  sanely  in- 
dulged in  can  engender.  When  you  are  a  little  older 
you  will  understand  that  passion  can  be  either  the  vilest 
or  the  highest  thing  in  life,  according  to  the  manner  in 
which  we  approach  it. 

"Meanwhile,  cultivate  your  art.  Should  the  man  you 
love  be  snatched  from  you  by  one  of  life's  many  dis- 
asters, you  will  not  be  wholly  bankrupt. 

"We  have  philosophized  long  enough.  Mr.  Pryce  is 
waiting  for  you.  Introduce  him  to  me." 

Richard,  as  Betty  saw  on  turning,  stood  not  a  yard 
away  from  them,  and  she  obediently  introduced  him  to 
Madame  Hudrazzini,  who  was  very  gracious  and  sweet 
with  him,  and  bade  him  bring  Betty  to  see  her. 

A  little  later  they  made  their  way  out  of  the  Direktor's 
house.  Richard  had  ordered  the  taxicab  to  come  back 
for  them,  and  opening  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  he  pushed 
her  into  it. 

"I  am  not  going  to  ride,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to 
walk.  You  will  have  to  go  home  alone." 

Betty  jumped  from  the  taxicab. 

"I  won't  ride  home  without  you,  Dicky.  Where  you 
go  to-night,  I  go  too." 

"I  want  to  be  alone,"  he  said  gruffly.  Betty  became 
seriously  alarmed.  He  had  never  spoken  to  her  roughly 
before. 

"I  don't  care  if  you  do,  Dicky.  I'll  be  as  still  as  a 
mouse,  but  where  you  go,  I  go." 

He  looked  hard  at  her,  but  replied  grudgingly: 

"Come  along,  then." 

He  made  no  further  protest,  and  she  walked  with 
him  in  silence  after  he  had  dismissed  the  taxicab.  Seem- 
ingly without  direction,  they  threaded  their  way  through 
the  streets,  reaching  home  within  an  hour. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         229 

Mrs.  Presbey  was  waiting  up  for  them. 

"Well?"  she  inquired. 

"Miss  Garside  was  told  that  her  voice  is  a  high- 
class  mechanical  toy  and  I  was  told  that  a  pianola  in  a 
saloon  plays  with  more  feeling  than  myself." 

At  the  recital  of  this  blasphemy,  Mrs.  Presbey  ut- 
tered an  indignant  "Oh !"  and  was  about  to  burst  into  a 
torrent  of  abusive  revilement  when  Betty,  before  follow- 
ing Richard  upstairs,  put  her  fingers  against  her  lips. 

"Good-night,"  he  said  roughly. 

"Good-night,  Dicky." 

But  Betty  did  not  undress,  nor  did  she  open  the 
Davenport.  She  was  certain  that  sooner  or  later  that 
night  Dicky  would  come  to  her  for  consolation.  And 
though  he  came  at  three  in  the  morning,  her  door  would 
be  open  to  him. 

Presently,  a  little  before  one,  he  tapped  at  the  door.. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

She  opened  the  door,  and  he  walked  in  quietly  and 
sat  down  on  a  corner  of  the  Davenport.  He  looked 
huddled  and  broken  and  old.  She  could  not  bear  to 
see  his  boyish  face  thus  seared  and  changed,  and  to 
hide  his  face  from  her  eyes,  as  well  as  to  afford  him 
what  consolation  she  might,  she  sat  down  on  the  arm 
of  the  Davenport,  and  gently,  protectingly  putting  her 
arms  around  Richard,  drew  him  against  her  shoulder. 
Intuition  told  her  that  not  through  words  but  only 
through  a  caress  could  she  hope  to  soothe  him. 

"Betty,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "it  was  splendid  of 
you  to  say  what  you  did  to  Earlcote." 

"I  never  thought,  Dicky,  that  I  was  capable  of  feeling 
so  downright  wicked  as  I  did  at  that  moment.  I  am 
really  sorry  I  said  what  I  did." 

"Why?" 

She  did  not   reply.     She  was  so   rigidly,   inflexibly 


230         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

honest  that  she  could  not  think  of  some  innocuous  pre- 
varication with  which  to  reply,  for  the  real  reason  of 
her  regret  was  the  fact,  of  course,  that  her  outbreak 
had  decided  Earlcote  to  play,  thereby  establishing  his 
immeasurable  superiority  over  Richard,  and  through 
affording  Earlcote  a  chance  to  treat  her  generously,  had 
regained  for  him  the  good  esteem  of  those  present  which 
his  harsh  treatment  of  Richard  had  lost  him. 

Richard  continued :  "If  you  are  sorry  because  he 
played  owing  to  what  you  said,  you  needn't  be.  I  don't 
regret  it.  It  was  a  revelation  to  hear  him.  Of  course 
a  man  who  can  play  like  that  has  a  right  to  say  what 
he  pleases  to  a  poor  bungler  like  myself." 

"Dicky,  you  are  not  a  bungler." 

"You  know  I  am — after  hearing  that  damnable  Octo- 
roon. Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  want  to  say  it 
again,  that  damnable,  detestable  beast  of  an  Octoroon. 
God!  How  I  hate  him — how  I  hate  him!" 

"And  so  do  I,"  Betty  said  fervently. 

"Until  he  played  I  had  a  vague,  sneaking  hope  that 
you  might  be  right,  that  professional  jealousy  had  in- 
spired the  unmerciful  roast  he  gave  me.  But,  heavens 
and  earth,  how  he  played !  I've  heard  Paderewski,  and 
Hoffman,  and  Rosenthal,  and  Joseffy,  and  d' Albert,  and 
Busonyi — I've  heard  'em  all,  but  there  is  not  a  single  one 
of  them  whom  he  does  not  eclipse  as  the  sun  eclipses 
the  moon.  He  could  almost  make  one  believe  in 
magic." 

Betty  sat  very  still  for  a  moment,  and  again,  as 
earlier  in  the  evening,  love  made  her  clairvoyant. 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  "this  is  what  I  saw.  The  man's 
soul  was  revealed  plainly  in  his  face  while  you  were 
playing.  I  tell  you  that  once  or  twice,  at  least,  you 
carried  him  away,  just  as  he  carried  us  away  later  on. 
He  is  not  jealous  of  you  as  you  are  now,  dearest — prac- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         231 

tically  untaught  and  untrained — but  he  is  jealous  of  the 
artist  you  may  develop  into  with  the  proper  tuition." 

Richard  would  not  take  this  view  of  it.  He  talked 
on  and  on.  He  never  thought  to  ask  Betty  what  Earl- 
cote  had  said  to  her,  or  what  decision  she  had  reached 
concerning  Europe.  It  was  only  on  the  morrow  that 
he  remembered  to  think  of  these  matters.  At  the  mo- 
ment he  was  eaten  up  with  disappointment  and  injured 
vanity  and  fury. 

Betty  sat  there,  with  Richard  in  her  arms,  thinking 
over  the  evening's  happenings.  Chords  of  whose  very 
existence  she  had  been  in  ignorance  had  been  whipped 
into  vibrant  life  that  evening.  New  impressions,  ideas 
and  personalities  had  crowded  upon  her  thick  and  fast. 
Madame  Hudrazzini's  words  rang  clamorously  in  her 
ears.  Above  everything  her  love  for  Richard  was  ram- 
pantly alive  in  her  as  never  before.  And  because,  as 
the  great  singer  had  said,  a  woman's  passion  is  inex- 
tricably bound  up  with  her  holiest  and  most  tender 
feelings,  with  everything  that  is  most  sacred  and  divine 
in  her  soul  and  acutest  and  most  delicately  balanced  in 
her  body,  Betty's  cheeks  began  to  glow,  her  eyes  to 
shine  with  a  new  and  deeper  luster,  until  the  rock 
crystal  look  of  limpid  clearness  was  gone,  and  they 
glimmered  instead  like  the  velvet  petals  of  a  black 
pansy.  Most  of  all  she  felt  tenderness,  infinite  and  in- 
expressible, for  her  Dicky.  Her  blood  sang  in  her  veins 
like  some  ineffably  sweet  song,  some  song  which  evaded 
her  ears  although  it  filled  her  soul.  She  lost  the  fac- 
ulty of  precise  and  accurate  thought.  She  experienced 
a  hazy  sensation  that  it  would  be  sweet  not  to  have  to 
part  with  Dicky  at  all  that  night,  that  it  would  be  sweet 
to  sleep  with  his  arms  about  her. 

How  near  to  happiness  was  Richard  now !  The  mir- 
acle for  which  he  had  prayed  was  all  but  performed.  A 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

little  well-advised  ardor  and  she  would  have  been  his 
completely.  But  the  golden  moment  vanished.  Plunged 
in  mortification  and  despair,  filled  with  fury  and  resent- 
ment, he  allowed  a  conjunction  of  conditions,  which 
might  not  occur  again  in  a  lifetime,  to  pass  without 
using  them.  Miserable,  utterly  wretched,  humiliated 
and  shaken,  he  rose  suddenly,  and  bidding  Betty  good- 
night, went  from  the  room  without  so  much  as  kissing 
her. 

And  Betty — Betty  was  so  innocent  that  she  was 
ashamed  of  the  unreasoning  happiness  which  was  suf- 
fusing her,  ascribing  it  to  unjustifiable  self-love  because 
Earlcote  and  Madame  Hudrazzini  had  been  kind  to  her ; 
she  accused  herself  of  disloyalty,  unwarrantable  petti- 
ness and  egotism  because  she  was  capable  of  feeling 
happy  when  her  Dick  was  plunged  in  despair.  She 
had  yet  to  learn  the  contradiction  of  human  nature  by 
which  there  is  distilled  in  a  woman's  heart  the  feeling 
of  supreme  joy  when  she  is  comforting  the  man  she 
loves  for  some  extraneous  sorrow. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Before  leaving  town,  Archie  Telfer  asked  to  be  al- 
lowed to  send  Betty  postcards,  and  hardly  a  day  passed 
without  bringing  her  two  or  three  choice  souvenir  pos- 
tals, each  one  a  little  work  of  art.  Sometimes  they 
brought  her  brief  word  of  his  doings,  sometimes  they 
conveyed  no  message  except  the  briefest  greeting.  Al- 
ways they  were  in  unimpeachable  taste. 

The  "dog"  was  taking  kindly  to  "The  Sun-God,"  and 
Archie's  press  agent's  inventiveness  was  taxed  to  the 
utmost  to  fabricate  adequate  stories  for  the  various  Sun- 
day papers  which  besieged  him  for  sensational  new  ma- 
terial in  the  career  of  "Adonis."  Of  course  "the  three 
graces"  came  in  plentifully  for  their  share  of  the  write- 
ups,  nor  did  the  spiciness  of  their  individual  existence 
lose  salt  in  the  telling.  Betty,  who  never  looked  at  the 
popular  Sunday  papers,  was  shown  one  of  these  articles 
by  Miss  Sharpe,  who  imagined  that  Betty  would  read 
the  amazing  chronicle  through  green  spectacles.  Betty 
merely  glanced  over  the  reportorial  confection  and,  hand- 
ing it  back  to  Miss  Sharpe,  said : 

"It  is  rather  horrid,  isn't  it?  I  don't  see  how  a  nice 
chap  like  Mr.  Telfer  could  contrive  to  get  himself  into 
such  a  mess.  It  must  be  horribly  mortifying  for  him  to 
see  the  affair  discussed  in  the  papers." 

Miss  Sharpe  looked  unutterable  things,  and  winked 
at  Miss  Connors,  who  continued  pasting  labels  in  wrap- 
pers with  an  air.  of  stolid  scorn. 

"Yes,  she  may  be  a  fool  because  she  doesn't  see 
through  him,  but  she  ain't  no  fool  in  that  she  doesn't 

233 


234         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

give  Archie  more  thought  than  she  does  you  or  me.  It 
is  still  Richard  the  Innocent  for  her — believe  me.  But 
does  any  sane  woman  refuse  postcards  or  a  box  of 
Huyler's  or  American  Beauties?  Not  on  your  tintype, 
Miss  Sharpe." 

Betty  did  not  show  those  postcards  to  Richard.  It 
was  an  innocent  enough  deception,  if  deception  there 
was.  Richard  had  happened  to  see  the  first  postal,  and 
had  gone  into  a  Berseker  rage  at  the  impudence  of  "that 
cur,  that  hound,"  in  writing  to  her. 

"Aren't  you  a  bit  hard  on  Archie?"  Betty  inquired. 
She  remembered  that  at  the  Direktor's  house  Richard 
had  asked  Archie  to  carry  a  message  for  her,  and  she 
forthwith  drew  the  conclusion  that  Richard  objected  to 
Archie  only  when  he  himself  was  not  there  to  chaperon 
her. 

"Archie!"  Richard  snorted  hotly.  "Don't  refer  to 
him  by  his  first  name.  Did  I  say  'cur'  ?  'hound'  ?  Well, 
I  would  like  to  qualify  that  with  an  expression  I  cannot 
use  in  your  presence." 

Betty  naturally  concluded  that  Richard's  attack  of 
fury  was  due  to  jealousy,  and  to  avoid  intensifying  that 
feeling,  allowed  the  postcards  she  received  in  every 
morning's  mail  to  disappear  before  Richard  strolled  over 
to  her  desk.  She  did  not  reply  to  any  of  the  cards. 
That,  she  reflected,  was  the  beauty  of  the  postcard  sys- 
tem— it  absolved  the  stay-at-homes  from  replying  to  the 
tourists. 

Earlcote,  accompanied  by  Dushka  and  Hahdjan,  came 
to  the  store  one  morning  at  half-past  eleven.  It  was  on 
a  brisk,  clear  morning  in  January  that  brought  the  color 
to  everybody  else's  cheeks,  but  Earlcote  looked  just  as 
colorless  and  gray  as  on  the  memorable  evening  on  which 
Betty  had  first  seen  him,  and  to  heighten  the  livid,  leaden, 
lifeless  effect,  he  had  donned  a  suit  of  gray  that  almost 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         235 

matched  the  indescribably  pale,  pasty  complexion.  His 
jade-green  eyes  were  the  only  trace  of  color  about  him, 
for  even  the  scarfpin  which  he  wore  in  his  gray  tie  was 
a  moonstone  set  in  platinum. 

"Well,"  he  said,  removing  his  hat  with  difficulty  and 
giving  it  to  one  of  his  servants  to  hold,  "how  are  we 
this  morning?" 

Betty  had  been  bracing  herself  for  this  meeting.  De- 
cency, as  well  as  policy,  suggested  that  she  employ  ordi- 
nary courtesy  in  whatever  social  intercourse  with  Earl- 
cote  events  might  force  upon  her,  and  she,  who  had 
never  remotely  thought  of  using  anyone,  so  inveterate 
was  her  repugnance  to  time-serving,  now  told  herself 
that  for  Richard's  sake  she  must  be  civil  to  Earlcote, 
for  she  still  hoped,  she  knew  not  by  what  means,  to 
persuade  him  to  reverse  his  verdict  concerning  Richard's 
playing. 

She  smiled  mechanically  in  recognition  of  Earlcote's 
greeting. 

"I  am  very  well,  thank  you.  I  trust  you  are  well," 
she  ventured. 

Earlcote  glanced  at  her  shrewdly. 

"How  much  do  my  purchases  have  to  amount  to  in 
order  to  entitle  me  to  hear  that  matchless  voice  of 
yours  ?" 

"I'm  not  busy  this  morning,"  Betty  said,  without  meet- 
ing Earlcote's  eyes,  "so,  if  you  wish  me  to  sing  some 
little  song  for  you  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  it,  even  if  you 
make  no  purchase.  Besides,"  she  added,  "you  are  the 
great  Stanley  Earlcote  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Telfer's,  and 
are  therefore  entitled  to  additional  courtesy." 

"Hm!  You  are  treating  me  very  decently  to-day. 
Have  you  by  any  chance  reconsidered  your  imbecile 
decision  to  refuse  my  offer?" 

"I  still  hold  to  the  imbecile  decision." 


236         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Earlcote  extended  his  gloved  hand,  in  which  Dushka 
placed  a  parcel.  He  handed  this  to  Betty. 

"Will  you  undo  it,  please,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  score 
for  Gounod's  'Faust.'  I  have  placed  a  bookmark  to 
indicate  'The  Jewel  Song.'  Please  sing  it." 

The  quiet  authority  of  the  voice  admitted  no  choice. 
Betty's  heart  began  jumping  with  anger,  unwarrantably, 
as  she  was  fair  enough  to  realize. 

"I  am  unfamiliar  with  the  score,"  she  objected.  "I 
have  never  even  tried  the  opera  or  that  particular  song." 

"Hum  it  to  yourself  before  singing  it,"  he  said.  "It 
does  not  matter  if  you  make  a  mistake  in  reading  the 
music.  I  want  to  hear  your  voice." 

Presently  Betty  began  to  sing.  Although  she  was  not 
nervous,  she  was  unwilling,  she  could  not  have  said 
why,  to  have  this  man  hear  her  sing  again.  And  yet  she 
herself  had  offered  to  sing  for  him,  hoping  to  propitiate 
him  for  Richard's  sake.  When  she  had  finished,  he  said 
curtly : 

"My  judgment  was  correct.  A  wonderful  voice — like 
a  bell  in  the  upper  register.  It  is  mezzo-soprano  and 
can  easily  be  extended  in  range  to  become  a  full  soprano. 
But  no  emotion,  no  feeling  at  all." 

Betty  flushed  angrily. 

"You  are,  to  all  intents  a  normal,  healthy  young 
woman,  and  you  sing  this  exquisite  bit  of  feminine 
music — music  so  feminine  that  it  must  inevitably  reach 
down  into  every  heart  with  its  human  appeal — as  if  it 
were  a  hymn  to  chastity." 

"I  do  not  care  a  rap  what  you  think  of  my  singing 
or  my  voice,"  Betty  said,  all  her  good  resolutions  going 
to  the  wall.  She  closed  the  book,  flung  it  down  on  the 
bench  from  which  she  had  risen,  and  turning,  faced  Earl- 
cote,  all  her  repugnance  for  the  man  in  the  ascendant. 

"I  hate  you,  I  hate  you,"  she  gasped,  and  even  as  she 


THE    VOICE   OF   THE   HEART         237 

spoke  she  was  aghast  at  her  lack  of  self-control,  fright- 
ened at  the  vehemence  she  displayed.  Earlcote,  with  the 
utmost  good-nature,  inquired : 

"Do  you  happen  to  realize  why  you  hate  me  so  bit- 
terly?" 

"Because  you  spoiled  Dick's  future." 

"Nonsense.  No  one  can  spoil  another  man's  future 
unless  he  ruins  his  health."  He  made  a  significant  ges- 
ture with  his  hands.  "Besides,  Richard  Pryce  has  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  the  feeling  with  which  I  inspire 
you,  and  deep  down  in  your  heart  you  know  it."  He 
leaned  forward,  and  when  he  spoke  again  he  had  dropped 
his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "You  hate  me  for  a  reason 
personal  to  yourself  and  myself — personal  to  yourself, 
a  woman,  and  personal  to  myself,  a  man." 

Betty  was  white  with  anger. 

She  demanded:  "Do  you  wish  to  insinuate  that  I 
pretend  hatred  for  you  to  hide  love  ?  Surely  you  haven't 
the  hardihood  to  pretend  that  I  would  fall  in  love  with 
such  as  you?" 

Earlcote  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"What  a  child  it  is,"  he  said  indulgently,  "what  an 
untried,  foolish,  impotent  little  fledgling."  He  regarded 
Betty  quizzically.  "If  you  were  a  mature  woman,"  he 
continued  easily,  "suspecting  me  of  so  monstrous  an 
egotism,  you  would  have  sought  to  punish  me  by  making 
me  fall  in  love  with  you,  which  would  have  been  a  far 
more  cruel  thing  to  do  than  to  utter  an  imprecation — 
more  cruel,  and  far  less  raw." 

Betty  hung  her  head. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  Earlcote  continued,  "the  reason  of 
your  hatred  for  me  is  a  reason  personal  to  you  and  to 
me.  Emotions  which  are  new  to  you  are  awakening, 
and  I  am  the  cause  of  that  awakening." 

Betty  made  a  Herculean  effort  to  keep  from  breaking 


238         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

into  another  fit  of  rage.  Pressing  her  folded  arms  across 
her  bosom,  with  her  characteristic  gesture,  she  said : 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  rude  to  you  again,  Mr.  Earl* 
cote — but  please,  please  don't  say  such  things  to  me." 

Earlcote  ignored  her  interpolation  completely. 

"Contrary  to  general  belief,  sex  may  be  active  in  a 
hatred,  in  a  repugnance,  quite  as  much  as  in  an  attrac- 
tion, in  a  love.  But  such  a  repugnance  is  much  rarer 
than  a  great  love.  In  isolated  cases  only  will  such  a 
repugnance  assume  notable  proportions.  This,  my  dear 
Miss  Garside,  is  your  case  in  regard  to  myself." 

Betty  looked  at  her  tormentor  helplessly. 

"It  is  true  I  hate  you  as  I  never  imagined  I  could  hate 
anyone,"  she  said,  "but  I  deny  that  the  feeling  is  other 
than  a  hatred  I  might  feel  for  a  woman.  Any  other 
supposition  is  absurd." 

"Why?  If  you  ascribe  to  loathing  a  purely  spiritual 
basis  you  make  it  a  more  magnificent  and  noble  thing 
than  love.  Besides,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  no 
woman  would  inspire  in  you  precisely  the  feeling  I 
arouse  in  you.  The  dominion  exerted  by  sex  is  incal- 
culable, far-reaching,  mysterious,  and  not  one  of  us  can 
escape  from  it.  Hereafter,  unless  you  wilfully  oppose 
yourself  to  the  new  factor  in  your  life,  your  singing  will 
change,  your  voice  will  become  an  emotion?!  voice,  not 
a  mere  musical  instrument." 

"I  will  never  sing  for  you  again." 

"Yes,  you  will,  quite  often,  I  am  sure.  For  by  and 
by,  you  know,  I  am  going  to  teach  you." 

Betty  felt  the  cold  perspiration  stand  on  her  brow. 
Earlcote's  quiet  tone  of  conviction  was  uncanny.  At 
the  moment  she  feared  him  even  more  than  she  hated 
him. 

"Sex  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  all  art,"  he  resumed. 
"True  greatness  of  conception  and  execution  or  inter- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         239 

pretation  can  be  achieved  only  by  that  man  or  woman 
in  whom  sex  is  normally  and  sanely  developed.  Sex 
gives  us  many  gifts,  the  gift  of  understanding,  of  sym- 
pathy, of  unselfishness,  of  sin." 

"And  you  call  sin  a  gift?"  Betty  was  aghast,  baffled; 
yet  in  spite  of  herself  she  was  intensely  interested. 

"Yes,  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  gifts.  The  perfect 
man,  the  impeccable  woman  never  quicken  with  sweet 
sympathy.  That  is  why  I  call  sin  a  great  gift.  It 
teaches  us  the  weakness  and  insignificance  inherent  in 
all,  and  it  acquaints  us  with  the  splendor,  the  magnifi- 
cence that  dwells  in  every  soul.  Some  few  rare  natures, 
of  imaginative  bent,  can  fathom  the  misery  of  toppling 
into  the  abyss  without  actually  plunging  into  it,  but 
most  of  us,  phlegmatic  and  uninspired,  must  knock  our 
ribs  and  scratch  our  knees  and  stub  our  toes  and  skin 
our  elbows  by  an  actual  tumble  into  the  great  gulf 
before  we  can  fully  comprehend  and  compassionate 
those  who  are  unhappy  through  a  fault  of  their  own." 

"At  this  moment  I  do  not  hate  you,"  Betty  said  im- 
pulsively. 

"That  in  no  way  invalidates  my  theory,"  Earlcote  re- 
torted, smiling.  "There  are  moments  when  we  do  not 
love  those  whom  we  love.  Love  and  loathing — what 
are  they  but  the  convex  and  concave  surface  of  sex? 
Take  a  jug,  a  cup,  a  vase.  Where  there  is  a  convex 
side,  there  is  a  concave  side  also.  Any  other  condition 
is  unthinkable." 

"You  are  very  brilliant,"  Betty  said  grudgingly. 

Earlcote  ignored  the  compliment  and  continued : 

"The  uses  of  sin  are  twofold.  The  individual  use,  to 
teach  us  and  broaden  us  and  make  us  more  fit  in  every 
•way,  if  only  through  the  long,  hard  upward  struggle 
that  succeeds  sin;  and  its  social  use — to  give  virtue  an 
opportunity  for  active  service." 


240         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Here,  no  matter  how  faulty  Earlcote's  theory,  was 
offered  an  explanation  of  the  problem  which  Richard 
had  been  unable  to  expound  for  Betty. 

"Tannhaeuser,"  she  said  quickly,  her  tone  a  cross  be- 
tween a  question  and  an  ejaculation. 

"Exactly,"  Earlcote  took  her  up.  "Tannhaeuser  is 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  works  of  art  ever  produced 
because  it  touches  the  vital  things  of  life;  the  two  cur- 
rents,— goodness,  evil  subsist  side  by  side.  They  over- 
lap and  interweave,  but  never  blend.  Each  of  us  is 
now  in  one  stream,  now  in  the  other,  for  absolute  good- 
ness is  as  fictitious  a  quantity  as  absolute  evil.  Neither 
can  conquer,  neither  can  be  vanquished,  for  if  one 
would  be  obliterated,  the  other  would  necessarily  cease 
to  exist,  for  what  conception  could  we  form  of  good- 
ness if  its  antithesis  were  not  there  to  serve  as  its 
measure  ?" 

"And  that  is  why  Tannhaeuser  is  greater  than  Elisa- 
beth herself.  Having  sinned,  he  had  the  strength  to 
recross  to  the  other  current.  That  argues  more  strength 
than  to  pursue  the  passive  tenor  of  a  noble  life  because 
temptation  has  never  beckoned." 

"I  have  always  disliked  to  think  of  sex  at  all,"  said 
Betty  musingly. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should.  Sex  is  the 
yeast  that  leavens  the  entire  inert  mass  of  our  human 
paste.  Without  it  there  would  be  no  progress,  no  art — 
nothing. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  extended  his  gloved  hand 
tentatively.  "Will  you  shake  hands  with  me  to-day? 
See,  I  have  not  removed  my  gloves  in  order  to  spare 
you  the  sight  of  my  hands." 

Conquering  her  aversion,  Betty  put  her  hand  into  his. 
Even  through  the  heavy  dogskin  glove  she  could  feel 
the  mutilations — conspicuous  knuckles  and  gnarled  fin- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         241 

gers.  Her  face  was  pale  and  drawn  as  she  quickly  with- 
drew her  hand  from  his. 

"I  met  Madame  Hudrazzini  the  other  day,"  Earlcote 
said.  "She  asked  for  you.  She  promised  to  bring  you 
and  the  whipper-snapper  down  to  Earlcote  Manor  some 
day  in  her  car.  Will  you  come?" 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  said  Betty,  thinking  that  at  Earl- 
cote's  house  she  might  have  a  better  opportunity  to  plead 
for  Richard  than  anywhere  else. 

"When  are  you  at  leisure?" 

"Wednesday  afternoon." 

'And  Richard  Pryce?" 

"Richard  takes  Friday  afternoons  off,  but  if  we  are 
not  too  busy  he  may  be  able  to  take  the  same  afternoon 
as  myself." 

"I  see.  When  you  visit  me,  I  will  play  you  some 
Hungarian  gypsy  music.  I  warrant  you  have  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before.  I  am  going  to  enchant 
you  with  my  playing,  and  my  aviary,  and  my  Aladdin's 
Orchard,  and  by  and  by  you  will  be  quite  content  to 
be  my  pupil." 

Betty  sat  very  still  for  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour 
after  Earlcote  was  gone.  Such  a  medley  of  feelings 
swept  over  her  that  she  felt  quite  unequal  to  the  task 
of  analyzing  or  classifying  them.  Repugnant  he  was  to 
her — horribly  so,  and  she  was  fair  enough  to  admit  that 
since  this  repugnance  was  a  physical  sensation,  it  might 
have  its  origin  in  the  feeling  he  named.  The  thought 
was  so  completely  new  to  her  that  she  examined  it  care- 
fully from  every  viewpoint  and  every  perspective.  She 
deeply  resented  the  fact  that  this  gargoyle-faced  man 
should  be  able  to  arouse  in  her  any  sensation  whatever. 
She  thought  of  Richard,  whom  she  loved  so  devotedly. 
Why,  if  what  Earlcote  said  was  true,  did  Richard  lack: 
the  power  to  awaken  her  dormant  womanhood  ?  For  the? 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

first  time  in  her  life  she  desired  to  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  passion;  she  blushed;  she  was  ashamed  of  the 
wish;  it  seemed  impure  to  her;  she  sought  to  exonerate 
herself  in  her  own  eyes  by  saying  that  the  wish  arose 
merely  out  of  the  knowledge  that  Earlcote,  whom  she 
hated,  exerted  a  power  over  her  which  Richard,  whom 
she  loved,  lacked. 

Then  she  remembered  Madame  Hudrazzini's  impas- 
sioned words,  the  reverence  with  which  she  had  spoken 
of  the  stronger  tie,  the  deeper  bond  between  man  and 
woman.  And  for  the  first  time,  too,  the  thought  came 
to  Betty  that  after  all  her  attitude  toward  the  mystery 
of  life,  toward  the  deeper  significance  of  sex,  might  be 
all  wrong.  She  remembered  her  mother's  attitude.  It 
had  seemed  clear  once — but  now,  though  she  remem- 
bered her  mother's  words  distinctly,  it  seemed  blurred 
and  indistinct.  One  thing  was  clear.  As  she,  Betty, 
had  rejected  her  mother's  theory  that  affection  was 
quite  indispensable  in  marriage,  there  was  no  earthly 
reason  why  she  should  not  also  reject  her  mother's  at- 
titude toward  marriage — the  aversion  which  her  mother 
had  tacitly  allowed  her  daughter  to  believe  she  felt.  So 
intensely  had  Earlcote  stimulated  her  mind  that  for  the 
first  time  the  thought  came  to  her  that  her  mother's  at- 
titude might  have  been  hypocritical.  She  remembered 
the  curious  sensation  of  tenderness,  of  happiness  which 
had  come  to  her  the  evening  of  Earlcote's  verdict  when 
she  held  Richard  in  her  arms.  She  wondered  whether 
at  that  moment  she  had  not  stood  upon  the  threshold  of 
a  fuller  life. 

At  that  moment  a  great  resolve  was  born  in  Betty's 
soul.  Henceforth  she  would  try  to  understand,  to  feel, 
and  failing,  she  would  some  day  screw  up  her  courage 
and  pretend  to  Dicky  that  the  change  which  he  had  so 
ardently  desired  had  actually  occurred  in  her  feeling 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         243 

for  him.  Perhaps,  if  she  pretended  hard  enough,  the 
change  would  ultimately  occur. 

Earlcote's  invitation  came  the  very  next  day.  It  was 
written  on  note  paper  as  thick  as  blotting  paper,  and  it 
was  rough  to  look  at  but  smooth  to  the  touch,  and  the 
note  was  enclosed  in  a  double  envelope.  The  flap  of  the 
envelope  bore  the  Tiffany  imprint. 

A  mild,  agreeable  excitement  took  possession  of  Betty 
and  lasted  through  the  four  days  that  intervened  be- 
tween the  arrival  of  Earlcote's  invitation  and  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  the  day  on  which  Betty,  chaperoned  by 
Madame  Hudrazzini,  was  to  visit  Earlcote  Manor. 
Richard  refused  absolutely  to  accompany  them.  He 
seemed  hurt  that  Betty  should  contemplate  visiting  Earl- 
cote,  but  when  she  attempted  to  explain  why  she  was 
going,  he  gently  but  firmly  declined  to  listen.  Betty  did 
not  insist  upon  explaining.  She  feared  that  if  Richard 
knew  the  real  reason  of  her  visit,  he  would  interfere 
with  her  going. 

Earlcote  Manor  had  been  written  about  to  repletion  by 
the  entire  New  York  press,  and  Betty,  in  some  small 
measure,  was  prepared  for  its  wonders. 

Overlooking  Long  Island  Sound,  the  enormous  estate, 
covering  some  four  hundred  acres,  was  laid  out  with  a 
view  of  securing  a  picturesque  and  spacious,  rather  than 
a  garden  effect.  Shrubs  and  flowers  were  all  of  the 
large,  ornamental  type,  hydrangeas,  rose  bushes,  peonies, 
hardy  azaleas,  gladiolii,  cannas,  these  in  summer,  filled 
the  gardens  with  a  riot  of  color.  But  the  real  glory  of 
Earlcote  Manor  were  its  buildings,  all  of  which  were 
modeled  upon  some  famous  Indian  prototype.  The 
Manor  House  was  a  modification  of  the  architecture  of 
the  Jasmine  Tower,  of  Agra  Fort,  used  as  a  zenana  by 
one  of  the  moguls.  Seen  at  high  noon,  flooded  by  the 
white  sunlight  of  winter,  itself  white  as  the  snow-robed 


244         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

landscape  from  which  it  rose  when  Betty  first  glimpsed 
it,  with  its  three  rows  of  delicately  fashioned  columns 
rising  plateau- wise  one  above  the  other,  and  separated 
by  architraves  and  lattice  work  as  intricate  and  lace-like 
in  design  as  filigree  work,  the  building  seemed  almost  as 
.unsubstantial  as  the  snow  itself — seemed  part  of  a 
dream  landscape  wrought  by  fairies  out  of  the  snow  to 
while  away  the  tedium  of  a  mid-winter  vigil. 

A  boat-house,  rising  from  the  water  some  hundred 
feet  from  the  shore,  was  modeled  in  imitation  of  the 
Golden  Temple  of  Amritsar,  the  blue  water  back  of  it, 
and  the  blue  canopy  of  sky  above,  showing  like  a  piece 
of  indigo  satin  in  the  rear  of  the  colonnades  of  the 
Manor  House.  It  made  the  snow-laden  landscape  an 
exquisite  symphony  in  blue  and  white  and  gold. 

Madame  Hudrazzini  and  Betty  were  admitted  by  a 
Hindu  servant,  who  led  them  through  an  interminable 
corridor  finished  in  marvelous  arabesques  and  scroll 
work,  and  furnished  with  divans,  Persian  and  Arabian 
rugs,  grinning  idols  and  burning  censers.  Finally  they 
came  into  an  enormous  apartment  surmounted  by  a  glass 
dome.  It  was  the  interior  of  Earlcote's  famous  aviary, 
the  exterior  of  which  was  built  in  exact  imitation  of  the 
Taj  Mahal,  the  tomb  of  Arjamand,  the  consort  of  Shah 
Jahan. 

Betty  and  Madame  Hudrazzini  stood  still  in  bewilder- 
ment, upon  entering  the  aviary.  It  was  more  like  a  gar- 
den than  a  habitat  for  birds.  A  bronze  fountain  in  the 
center  poured  water,  perfumed  with  sandalwood,  into  a 
white  marble  basin,  on  the  steps  of  which  sat  two  Arab 
boys  playing  mandolins.  They  were  naked  save  for  a 
loin  cloth,  and  wore  anklets  and  bracelets  of  heavy  gold, 
and  their  bodies,  anointed  with  oil,  glistened  as  if  sculp- 
tured out  of  agate.  Pink  water  lilies  floated  on  the 
bosom  of  the  fountain,  wonderful  hand-woven  rugs  cov- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         245 

ered  the  inlaid  marble  floor,  wonderful  tapestries  hung 
from  balustrades  of  lace-like  design.  Enormous  cages 
containing  gaily  colored  parrots  and  green  and  white 
cockatoos,  swung  high  above  the  visitors'  heads.  A  fla- 
mingo laved  its  pink  legs  in  the  water  near  the  floating 
lilies. 

Out  of  all  this  dazzling  mass  of  color  Earlcote  de- 
tached his  colorless  self  and  came  forward  with  out- 
stretched hand  to  greet  his  visitors.  Betty  was  grateful 
that  he  wore  gloves,  and  as  she  shook  hands  with  him 
she  noticed  that  as  a  fob  he  wore  a  gem  different  from 
anything  she  had  ever  seen,  and  which,  from  Archie's 
description,  she  guessed  was  the  Kasi-Nook,  the  famous 
black  opal. 

Madame  Hudrazzini  insisted  on  strolling  about  to  look 
at  everything.  Earlcote  called  a  Hindu  to  show  her 
about,  pleading  fatigue  as  an  excuse  for  himself  for  not 
accompanying  her,  and  asking  that  Betty  keep  him 
company  until  Madame  Hudrazzini's  return. 

Betty  noticed  that  Earlcote  gave  all  instructions 
through  Dushka  or  Hahdjan,  the  deaf-mutes,  who  stood 
behind  his  chair,  and  when  Earlcote  turned  his  head,  one 
of  the  two  darted  forward.  Earlcote's  lips  moved,  but 
he  did  not  speak.  Immediately  the  Hindu,  making  an 
obeisance,  walked  away  to  summon  the  servant  whom 
Earlcote  had  designated  as  a  guide  for  Madame  Hudraz- 
zini. There  was  something  uncanny  in  these  silent  com- 
mands of  Earlcote  and  their  incredibly  swift  exe- 
cution. Who  but  Earlcote,  thought  Betty,  would  have 
conceived  the  idea  of  not  pronouncing  the  words  which 
he  wished  his  deaf-mutes  to  read  from  his  lips.  The 
incident,  trifling  as  it  was,  heightened  the  sense  of  weird 
unreality  which  was  creeping  over  Betty. 

When  they  were  alone,  seated  on  a  marble  bench  in 
front  of  a  marble  table,  Earlcote  said: 


S46          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Well,  Miss  Garside,  how  do  you  like  my  enchanted 
palace  ?" 

"It  is  wonderful." 

"Yes,  but  it  has  one  drawback.  The  birds,  being 
tropical,  do  not  sing.  Now  what  I  need,  what  I  want 
and  what  I  desire  above  everything  is  a  song-bird,  a 
live,  human  song-bird  to  make  music  for  me." 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  brought  his 
face  close  to  Betty's.  The  girl's  blood  seemed  to  con- 
geal in  her  veins  as  the  terrible  green  eyes  approached 
her  own  so  narrowly,  but  she  gave  no  outward  sign  of 
perturbation. 

"You  are  gaining  in  self-control,"  said  Earlcote,  "or 
is  the  aversion  for  me  wearing  away?" 

"Please,  please,  Mr.  Earlcote,"  Betty  implored. 

"Oh,  very  well.  What  I  long  for  now,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, is  a  human  song-bird  whom  I  could  teach." 

Betty  again  said  "Please,  please,"  rather  asininely. 

"Well,  then,  if  I  am  not  to  speak  about  that  either, 
tell  me  about  the  whipper — no,  that  word  also  is  pro- 
hibited. I  shall  have  to  make  a  list  of  what  I  may  and 
of  what  I  may  not  speak  of  in  your  presence.  Tell  me 
about  the  young  man  whom  you  love  so  devotedly." 

"What  am  I  to  tell?" 

"Didn't  you  come  here,  Miss  Betty,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  discussing  him  with  me?" 

Betty  blushed  furiously. 

"You  came  here,  I  think,  to  plead  with  me  for  your 
Richard." 

"Well,  yes,  I  did." 

"You  love  him,  but  you  do  not  love  him  passionately." 

"Certainly  not.  I  have  told  you  before  that  I  do  not 
love  him  passionately." 

Earlcote  laughed. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "you  had  better  be- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         247 

ware.  If  you  treat  your  Richard  too  frigidly  he  will 
some  day  go  off  and  marry  someone  else.  Why,  you 
carry  your  obstinate  self-deception  so  far  that  you  pro- 
nounce the  very  word  'passion'  as  if  your  mouth  were 
sprinkled  with  cayenne  pepper,  and  it  were  agony  to 
speak.  You  are  a  foolish,  silly,  absurd  little  girl.  You 
pride  yourself  upon  the  spiritual  tie  that  binds  you  to 
your  Richard.  Spiritual  ties !  As  well  tie  up  a  criminal's 
hands  with  ribbons  of  smoke  as  expect  to  bind  a  man 
and  a  woman  together  by  spiritual  ties  only.  We  are  of 
the  earth,  earthy,  and  we  cannot  escape  from  our  earthy 
heritage.  'Blood  is  thicker  than  water/  the  old  adage 
says.  Perhaps  that  offends  you  also  by  its  coarseness. 
If  not,  it  is  because  you  lack  the  faculty  for  coherent 
and  logical  thought.  There  could  exist  no  blood  rela- 
tionship whatever — not  the  tender  bonds  uniting  sister 
and  sister,  the  strong  tie  which  unites  brother  and 
brother,  if  it  were  not  for  the  exercise  of  this  particular 
function  of  Nature." 

Betty's  self-possession  gave  way.  She  made  no  effort 
to  fence  with  this  remorseless  intellectual  machine,  clang- 
ing out  its  opinions  in  concise,  metallic  terms. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said  supinely.  "I  have  tried 
to  understand — I  have  tried  to  overcome  ,^he  shrinking — > 
but  I  do  not  succeed." 

"That  is  the  first  sensible  thing  I  have  heard  you  say 
on  the  subject." 

Earlcote  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gazed  at  her 
meditatively.  "You  will  learn,"  he  said.  ''There  is  no 
doubt  but  that  you  will  learn,  and  you  will  some  day 
be  a  great,  no,  I  will  make  no  predictions  as  they  only 
annoy  you." 

His  eyes,  fixed  upon  Betty,  scrutinized  her  at  leisure. 
Without  moving,  without  speaking,  without  as  much  as 
a  quiver  of  lip  or  eyelid,  he  sat  and  looked  at  her  with 


248         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

his  green  cat's  eyes,  and  Betty,  shrinking  away  from  that 
gaze,  felt  herself  grow  limp  as  a  rag  or  flaccid  as  jelly. 
All  her  aversion,  which  she  had  heroically  contrived  to 
keep  under  control,  surged  up  in  her.  She  had  the  sen- 
sation that  Earlcote  was  a  huge  cat  and  she  a  mouse 
with  which  he  was  playing. 

With  a  terrible  effort  of  the  will  she  dismissed  the 
morbid  fancy.  She  remembered  that  she  was  leagues 
from  the  subject  which  she  had  come  to  discuss.  She 
came  back  to  it  clumsily. 

"To  return  to  Richard,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  that  his 
career  is  the  one  thing  that  will  make  for  his  happiness. 
Dear  Mr.  Earlcote,  won't  you  be  nice  and  recommend 
him?" 

"Dear  Mr.  Earlcote — assuredly,  that  word  addressed 
to  me  must  have  made  you  suffer,"  Earlcote  repeated 
almost  blithely.  "Dear  Mr.  Earlcote." 

Betty  bit  her  lip. 

"I  am  trying,  honestly  trying,  Mr.  Earlcote,  to  over- 
come my  childish  dislike  for  you." 

Earlcote  bent  forward  quickly  and  touched  Betty's 
arm  with  his  gloved  hand.  Unconsciously  she  shrank 
back  from  his  touch. 

"That  is  how  you  will  overcome  your  aversion — be- 
cause it  is  not  a  childish  one,  as  I  told  you  the  other 
day.  You  cannot  help  yourself.  It  flatters  me  quite  as 
much  as  if  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  me." 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  I  beg  of  you,  let  us  speak  of  Richard 
for  a  little  while." 

"Very  well." 

"I  implore  you  once  more  to  reverse  your  opinion. 
You  can  do  it  easily  enough." 

"How?     I  cannot  give  myself  the  lie." 

"You  might  say  that,  after  hearing  him  play  again, 
his  playing  seemed  very  much  better  to  you." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"I  thought  you  were  honest,  Miss  Betty?  And  here 
you  are  asking  me  to  do  an  extremely  dishonest  thing." 

"No,  I'm  not."  Betty  spoke  quietly.  A  significant 
undercurrent  in  her  tone  and  manner  made  Earlcote  ask 
sharply : 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Betty's  sweet  grave  face  became  very  white.  She  said 
bravely : 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  if  you  were  to  say  that 
it  would  be  merely  telling  them  your  true  opinion  of 
Dicky's  playing." 

"Surely  you  are  not  trying  to  revive  the  silly  notion 
that  I  am  professionally  jealous  of  Richard  now  that 
you  have  heard  me  play  the  piece  that  he  had  previously 
murdered  ?" 

"It  is  not  a  silly  notion.  You  are  not  jealous  of  him 
as  he  is  now — of  course  not — but  you  fear  him  as  a 
rival  in  the  future.  You  want  to  go  down  to  history 
as  the  great  pianist  of  all  ages — and  you  know  that 
Richard,  if  he  had  a  fair  chance,  would  be  your  close 
second,  perhaps  your  equal." 

Earlcote's  gray  face  grew  more  cadaverous.  He  was 
furious  that  this  slip  of  a  girl,  this  silly  chit  of  a  girl, 
whom  he  would  not  have  considered  worth  a  moment's 
notice  if  it  were  not  for  the  incomparable  voice  that 
lodged  in  her  throat,  should  have  read  his  inmost 
thoughts  so  perfectly.  He  would  have  liked  to  crush 
her  brutally,  to  get  rid  of  her,  to  send  her  about  her 
business.  But  there  was  her  voice,  the  voice  which  he 
desired  and  coveted  with  a  passion  and  enthusiasm  he 
had  not  felt  since  his  body  had  been  wrecked,  making 
it  impossible  for  him  to  express  himself  through  his 
own  medium.  He  controlled  himself,  and  said  diffi- 
dently : 

"Your  infatuation  for  your  Richard  blinds  your  judg- 


250         THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART 

ment,  just  as  it  allows  you  to  stoop  to  conduct  for  which 
you  would  otherwise  despise  yourself." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  conduct?  What  have 
I  done?" 

"You  are  trying  to  make  use  of  one  of  your  friends — > 
you  are  trying  to  use  me." 

"In  the  first  place,"  Betty  replied  vigorously,  chin 
high  in  air,  "I  am  not  trying  to  use  you.  I  am  trying 
to  get  you  to  be  just  instead  of  unjust;  in  the  second 
place,  if  I  were  trying  to  use  you,  it  would  not  be  a 
friend  whom  I  wanted  to  use.  One  feels  no  dislike  for 
one's  friends,  I  think." 

Earlcote's  thin  lips  became  taut  and  straight  until  they 
formed  a  barely  perceptible  line  in  the  hideous  face. 

"If  we  are  not  friends,  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  drive  a  bargain  with  each  other,  is  there?" 

"None." 

"Very  well.  Now  tell  me,  what  would  you  be  willing 
to  suffer  for  your  Richard's  sake." 

"Anything  in  the  wide  world." 

Earlcote  took  a  wallet  from  his  pocket,  and  counted 
out  five  one-thousand  dollar  bills. 

"Would  that  cover  Richard's  expenses  abroad  for 
three  years?" 

"It  certainly  would.  But  I  do  not  want  your  money, 
Mr.  Earlcote." 

"I  may  give  you  a  chance  to  earn  it." 

He  turned  his  head,  his  lips  moved.  Dushka  in  obe- 
dience to  the  silent  command,  ran  off  with  the  stealthy, 
gliding  movements  of  a  tiger,  returning  a  minute  later 
with  a  pair  of  scissors.  Again  Earlcote's  lips  moved,  and 
Dushka  cut  the  five  one-thousand  dollar  bills  in  half,  one 
by  one.  Then  he  withdrew. 

Earlcote  gathered  up  one  set  of  these  mutilated  bills; 
the  other  set  of  halves  he  pushed  toward  Betty. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         251 

"The  set  in  my  pocket,"  he  said,  "which  pasted  to  the 
set  which  are  yours,  will  place  five  thousand  dollars  at 
your  disposal.  They  will  be  handed  to  you  by  me  if 
you  will  consent  to  call  for  them  here  at  midnight." 

Betty  drew  back  aghast.  Her  black  eyes  glimmered 
like  burning  coals. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  said  in  a  low,  indignant  voice, 
"How  dare  you  offer  me  such  an  insult?" 

"There  you  are.  You  tell  me  you  are  willing  to  endure 
'anything  in  the  world'  for  your  Richard,"  he  imitated 
the  semi-pathetic,  semi-strenuous  inflection  of  a  woman's 
voice.  "I  make  you  a  proposition,  a  harmless,  fair  busi- 
ness proposition,  and  you  immediately  flare  up,  and  say 
'How  dare  you  insult  me  like  that?'  The  inconvenience 
to  which  my  proposition  would  have  put  you  is  very 
slight,  as  you  will  admit." 

"It  is  not  a  case  of  inconvenience,  it  is  a  case  of 
wrong-doing,"  Betty  flung  back  indignantly.  "I  would 
certainly  not  do  anything  wrong,  not  even  for  Richard's 
sake." 

Earlcote  laughed. 

"Poor  love,"  he  said,  "if  it  weighs  and  measures  with 
Puritanical  drams  and  grains  to  ascertain  whether 
service  be  service  only  or  sin  as  well.  You  thought,  did 
you,  of  poor  Ophelia's  words: 

'Went  in  a  maid  that  out  a  maid 
Never  departed  more' 

You  imputed  motives  of  that  sort  to  me,  didn't  you,  you 

little  white  thing?    But,  if  you  will  recollect,  I  did  not 

say  so." 

"If  you  didn't  mean  that,  what  did  you  mean?" 
Betty's  face  was  crimson.     She  was  on  the  verge  of 

tears — tears  of  mortification  and  shame. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Ah,  there  you  are.  Perhaps,  as  in  Monna  Vanna,  I 
would  have  asked  you  to  sit  all  through  the  night  with 
me,  robed  only  in  a  mantle.  Perhaps  I  would  have 
thought  that  the  torture  of  anticipating  that  you  would 
be  expected  to  submit  yourself  to  my  will  would  be 
sufficient  suffering  to  earn  your  five  thousand  dollars. 
Then  again — perhaps  I  didn't  think  that.  Will  you  test 
me?" 

"Certainly  not." 

Earlcote  laughed. 

"Well — keep  the  mutilated  set  of  five  one-thousand 
dollar  bills.  If  you  ever  wish  the  other  set  of  halves, 
telephone  me  that  you  are  coming.  I  will  understand, 
and  expect  you  that  same  evening.  And  I  promise  you, 
on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  that  whatever  my  inten- 
tions may  be,  if,  at  the  last  moment,  you  desire  to  leave 
my  house  with  the  one  set  of  halves  only  in  your  pocket, 
you  shall  be  as  free  to  go  as  you  were  to  come,  unmo- 
lested, unharmed." 

"You  are  detestable,"  said  Betty,  impetuously.  Rising, 
she  pushed  the  five  half  bills  across  the  table  to  Earl- 
cote. 

"If  you  do  not  take  your  set  with  you,  Miss  Betty,  I 
shall  think  that  you  are  afraid  of  trusting  yourself  with 
them — afraid  of  the  temptation,  afraid  of  familiarizing 
yourself  with  temptation." 

Betty  gave  him  a  look  of  infinite  scorn.  She  swept 
the  vast  apartment  with  her  glances.  Again  she  ex- 
perienced the  curious  accession  of  a  different  personality. 
Again  she  felt  older,  more  experienced,  more  mature,  a 
woman  capable  of  dealing  with  the  vexatious  situation 
which  confronted  her. 

"I  will  go  and  meet  Madame  Hudrazzini,"  she  said.  "I 
think  I  will  not  impose  on  your  hospitality  any  longer." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         253 

Earlcote  struggled  from  his  chair.  Seriously  alarmed, 
he  protested : 

"My  dear  Miss  Garside — I  apologize,  I  do  indeed.  Per- 
haps we  can  make  a  different  bargain,  a  bargain  which 
will  be  acceptable  to  you." 

Betty,  her  back  turned  to  him,  remained  immovable. 
Earlcote,  leaning  heavily  on  the  table,  brought  his  face 
forward  so  far  that  it  almost  touched  her  shoulder,  and 
leering  hideously,  continued : 

"Supposing — just  supposing  I  were  to  offer  you  this 
sum  of  money  if  you  in  return  will  consent  to  be  my 
pupil?" 

Betty  turned  and  faced  him.  Her  serenity,  the  se- 
curity and  authority  with  which  she  found  herself  pre- 
pared to  summarily  handle  the  situation  filled  her  with 
an  aloof,  detached  amazement.  She  seemed  to  be  spec- 
tator as  well  as  actor  in  the  little  comedy  which  was  in 
process  of  enactment.  The  thought  flashed  across  her 
mind  that  from  Earlcote  himself  she  was  drawing  some 
of  the  strength,  the  resourcefulness,  the  wariness  with 
which  she  miraculously  found  herself  invested. 

"You  should  have  thought  to  offer  that  bargain  first," 
she  said.  "You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  consider  any 
proposition  of  yours  after  the  deadly  affront  you  offered 
me." 

Earlcote  regarded  her  quizzically.  His  crafty  eyes 
changed  from  green  to  a  gray  so  deep  that  they  were 
almost  black. 

"Perceive,  if  you  please,  that  just  now  I  made  no  defi- 
nite offer — I  merely  postulated  the  possibility  of  such 
an  offer.  You  might  have  been  ready  to  pronounce  ac- 
ceptable a  bargain  which,  after  all,  I  would  not  have 
been  ready  to  make." 

"Why  did  you  try  to  get  my  opinion  of  it,  then?" 


354          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"So  I  could  make  up  my  mind  at  leisure  as  to  whether 
that  particular  exchange  was  worth  my  while." 

"How  worth  your  while?" 

"Whether  it  was  worth  putting  down  five  thousand 
dollars  for  the  pleasure  of  enrolling  you  as  a  free  pupil." 

"Yet  you  were  willing  to  put  down  five  thousand  dol- 
lars for  the  pleasure  of  a  night's  conversation  with  me." 

Astounded,  a  little  frightened  at  her  own  fluency  of 
thought  and  facility  of  speech  in  giving  this  twist  to 
Earlcote's  insulting  proposition,  Betty  began  tapping  the 
table  with  her  fingers.  In  spite  of  the  harassing  and 
mortifying  position  in  which  she  found  herself,  she  was 
surprised  to  find  that  she  was  experiencing  something 
akin  to  pleasure  in  the  maturity  of  thought  and  manner 
which  she  was  displaying. 

Earlcote  looked  at  her  keenly  for  a  moment  before  re- 
plying. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  made  you  the  first  propo- 
sition as  a  bona  fide  and  not  as  a  tentative  proposition 
because  I  was  absolutely  sure  that  you  would  not  stoop 
to  it." 

Automatically,  Betty's  fingers  stopped  their  tapping. 
The  chaste,  pale  face  became  very  still.  The  lustrous, 
penetrating  black  eyes  with  their  glint  of  light  in  the 
pupils  lay  in  her  head  like  burning  coals.  She  was  think- 
ing rapidly  and  economically,  wasting  no  time  in  fruit- 
less discursiveness.  Facts  that  dovetailed,  statements 
that  conflicted,  presented  themselves  to  her. 

"You  are  adroit  of  speech,  Mr.  Earlcote.  But  you  are 
forgetting  an  important  point.  In  offering  me  the  af- 
front which  you  term  your  'first  proposition'  and  which 
you  now  pretend  to  have  known  I  would  not  abase  myself 
to  accept,  you  practically  destroyed  five  thousand  dollars." 

"I  have  only  to  paste  them  together  again." 

"But  I  might  have  taken  your  dare  and  walked  off 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         255 

with  one  set  of  halves.  Then  you  would  have  been  five 
thousand  dollars  out  of  pocket,  without  getting  any- 
thing in  return." 

"I  was  certain  you  would  not  take  my  dare." 

Betty  looked  hard  at  Earlcote.  Before  her,  on  the 
table,  still  lay  the  one  set  of  half  bills.  Deliberately,  her 
lips  wearing  a  semi-amused,  semi-mischievous  smile,  she 
swept  them  into  her  purse. 

"I  did  not  think,  Miss  Garside,  that  you  would  do  so 
daring  a  thing.  It  is  daring,  you  know." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  return  them  to  you  the  day  my 
Richard  receives  the  scholarship  from  the  Musical  Prog- 
ress League.  I  leave  it  to  your  ingenuity  to  think  of 
ways  and  means." 

Earlcote  pretended  to  become  indignant.  Secretly  he 
was  more  entertained  than  he  had  been  in  years.  He 
had  underrated  this  chit  of  a  girl,  and  he  now  hoped 
to  see  more  of  her.  She  amused  him.  Also  he  was  a 
a  good  sportsman  and  the  fact  that  the  game  was  going 
against  him,  lent  zest  to  it. 

"I,  too,  have  my'  honor,"  he  protested.  "As  I  told 
you  before,  I  cannot  give  myself  the  lie." 

"Honor — nonsense.  It  is  simply  this  Mr.  Earlcote: 
You  are  going  to  decide  within  the  next  week  what  you 
want  more,  five  thousand  dollars  or  the  spoiling  of  Rich- 
ard's future,  so  far  as  it  lies  in  your  power  to  spoil  it." 

"I  think  you  must  be  a  paranoic." 

"What's  that?" 

"Paranoia  is  the  terrible  form  of  insanity  that  begins 
by  imagining  that  someone  is  persecuting  us.  In  you  it 
takes  the  form  of  an  ineradicable  belief  that  I  am  hound- 
ing your  adored  and  adoring  Richard.  If  you  don't  look 
out,  you  will  end  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Betty  was  greatly  amused.  She  was  so  amused  that 
she  threw  back  her  head,  venting  peal  after  peal  of  ex- 


£56         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

quisite  laughter,  that  ripple  from  her  throat  with  a 
wealth  of  euphony.  It  was  irresistibly  contagious.  Earl- 
cote's  face  was  puckered  into  a  smile  which  had  lost  every 
trace  of  sourness  or  a  sneer. 

Because  there  was  more  to  this  girl  than  he  had  imag- 
ined, he  made  another  desperate  effort  to  gain  his  point. 

"Look  here,  if  I  arranged  for  the  scholarship,  would 
you  be  willing  to  let  me  teach  you?" 

"Evidently  you  are  trying  to  make  up  your  mind  which 
you  want  more — to  block  Richard's  career  or  secure  my 
voice.  I  will  consider  no  tentative  offers.  But  tell  me, 
Mr.  Earlcote,  why  are  you  so  anxious  about  my  voice? 
I  fail  to  comprehend  your  motives  in  that  particular,  I 
confess." 

"Can't  you  imagine  what  it  means  for  a  man  of  my 
temperament  and  musicianship  to  be  suddenly  deprived 
of  an  outlet  for  my  feelings?  To  the  positive  pain  of 
deprivation  is  added  the  negative  pain  of  boredom.  I 
am  bored  to  death.  I  do  not  know  how  to  pass  the  time 
of  day  since  I  am  unable  to  play.  Day  after  day  I  sit 
reading  the  scores  of  operas  and  symphonies  and  con- 
certos— of  mazurkas  and  nocturnes  and  barcaroles,  the 
most  insignificant  of  which,  were  I  to  play  it,  would 
mean  exquisite  torture  for  me.  I  came  back  to  the 
United  States,  hoping  that  a  great  specialist  of  whom  I 
heard  while  abroad,  might  be  able  to  restore  my  spine 
and  arms  to  usefulness.  My  hopes  were  disappointed. 
As  long  as  I  live,  when  I  play,  if  I  play,  I  must  expiate 
for  doing  so  with  inconceivable  suffering." 

"And  what  has  my  voice  to  do  with  all  this?"  Betty 
told  herself  that  it  was  monstrous  that  she  could  not  feel 
compassion  untinctured  by  aversion  for  Earlcote.  What 
she  felt  for  him  was  the  repugnance  she  would  have  felt 
for  a  wounded  animal,  a  bear  or  a  coyote — always  repul- 
sive, but  doubly  repulsive  when  seen  in  its  death  throes. 


257 


"You  have  everything  to  do  with  it,  Miss  Garside. 
I  cannot  use  my  hands,  but  I  can  use  my  brain,  and 
using  my  brain  with  your  throat  as  my  instrument,  I  will 
play  on  your  voice  as  I  formerly  played  on  a  piano.  It 
will  give  me  something  to  do  to  teach  you.  It  will  help 
pass  the  endless,  weary,  memory-haunted  hours." 

"Nevertheless,  I  will  never  be  your  pupil." 

"You  will.    Kismet  —  you  will." 

Madame  Hudrazzini  was  approaching,  gesticulating 
and  waving  a  branch  of  purple  flowers  which  Betty  had 
never  seen  before. 

"You're  not  going  to  make  a  scene  of  any  sort,  are 
you?"  Earlcote  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  I  am  going  to  say  nothing  of  what  has  hap- 
pened. But  please  understand,  Mr.  Earlcote,  I  refrain 
from  'making  a  scene'  as  you  call  it,  not  on  your  ac- 
count, but  on  Madame  Hudrazzini's,  who,  since  she  is 
acting  as  my  chaperone,  would  be  horribly  mortified  to 
think  I  had  been  subjected  to  any  unpleasantness  through 
her  brief  absence." 

"See,  carissima,"  said  the  great  soprano,  "this  is  a  bou- 
gainvillea,  a  tropical  flower.  Is  it  not  lovely?" 

Earlcote  rose  from  his  chair. 

"I  have  promised  to  play  for  you  ladies,"  he  said,  "I 
will  play  now." 

He  played  some  Hungarian  dances,  wild  gypsy  music, 
whose  constant  ceaseless  changes  of  rhythm,  tempo  and 
accentuation  irritated  nerves,  not  accustomed  to  such 
truceless  syncopation,  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 
Betty's  imagination  was  on  fire,  her  blood  seemed 
changed  into  a  myriad  tiny  hammers  that  tapped  against 
brain  and  heart  and  throat. 

After  that  they  ate  the  most  delicious  confections 
Betty  had  ever  tasted,  under  a  palm  tree  which  she  sud- 
denly discovered  was  carved  out  of  green  and  brown 


258         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

jade.  The  pink-legged  flamingo  came  and  ate  tidbits 
out  of  Earlcote's  hand,  and  suddenly  a  troup  of  Indian 
dancing  girls,  all  glistening  brown  limbs  and  tinkling 
spangles  and  jewels  large  as  hen's  eggs  and  fluttering 
veils,  appeared  in  the  quadrangle  on  the  other  side  of  the 
pool. 

Then,  Earlcote  took  it  into  his  head  to  show  them 
photographs  of  himself  taken  before  he  had  become  crip- 
pled. His  pictures  showed  him  to  have  had  a  tall,  well- 
knit  athletic  figure  and  a  shapely  prepossessing  head  as 
far  as  features  were  concerned,  but  looking  at  the  pic- 
tures made  it  clear  to  Betty  that  her  invincible  repugnance 
for  Earlcote  was  not  for  Earlcote  the  cripple  so  much 
as  for  Earlcote  the  man.  She  realized  that  he  was  per- 
fectly right  in  his  diagnosis  of  her  aversion. 

Finally,  an  hour  later,  Betty  and  Madame  Hudrazzini 
were  speeding  Manhattan-ward  in  the  great  singer's  auto- 
mobile. 

"Like  an  Arabian  night,  eh?"  asked  Madame  Hud- 
razzini. 

"To  me  it  seems  as  if  I  had  escaped  from  the  house 
of  an  ogre  who  eats  little  children,  strayed  from  home." 

"I  think  this  ogre  means  to  be  very  good  to  one  little 
child,  if  the  little  child  will  only  let  him.  Here  we  are — 
good-by,  my  dear,  and  come  to  see  me  very  soon  at  my 
new  apartments.  I  am  in  every  evening  at  seven."  She 
bent  forward  and  kissed  Betty.  "If  I  can  ever  do  any- 
thing for  you,  anything  in  the  wide  world — come  to  me. 
I  am  your  friend — always." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

After  the  departure  of  his  guests,  Earlcote  remained 
seated  for  a  few  moments,  eyes  closed,  as  if  deep  in 
thought.  Then,  turning  his  head,  his  lips  moved  in  a 
silent  command  which  was  read  by  the  Hindu  attendant. 

Stepping  noiselessly  across  the  vast  apartment,  and 
pushing  aside  a  crimson  hibiscus  vine,  the  Hindu  turned 
the  knob  of  a  lattice-work  door  which  was  completely 
hidden  by  the  foliage.  The  chamber  into  which  the  door 
opened  was  dark,  and  out  of  it  stepped  a  young  lady  who 
walked  briskly  out  into  the  courtyard  of  the  aviary.  It 
was  Katarina  della  Florenzia,  alias  Kitty  Florence.  She 
tripped  lightly  across  the  floor  to  Earlcote. 

"  Ton  my  word,  Earlcote — I  thought  you  would  keep 
me  penned  up  in  there  till  doomsday.  What  do  you 
mean  by  allowing  me  to  cool  my  heels  in  a  musty,  stuffy 
stable  loft  like  that  so  long?  I  couldn't  even  understand 
a  syllable  of  what  you  and  the  girl  were  saying.  And 
your  pantomimes  were  not  wholly  expressive.  One  thing 
is  sure.  The  lady  does  not  love  you.  And  I  do  not  love 
her." 

"No  doubt.  She  is  everything  that  you  are  not.  She 
is  virtuous,  pure-minded,  chaste.  Her  voice  is  exquisite 
and  she  is  so  single-minded  that  she  cannot  be  double- 
faced,  for  the  sake  of  her  single-minded  devotion,  even 
with  an  enemy." 

"Look  here,  Earlcote,  don't  run  away  with  the  idea 
that  you  can  verbally  turkey-trot  with  me.  If  you  want 
me  to  render  you  this  service,  whatever  it  is,  you  will  have 
to  quarantine  your  tongue." 

259 


260          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Earlcote  made  her  a  mock  heroic  bow. 

"I  am  forgetting  to  be  hospitable,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  have  a  plate  of  ice-cream?" 

"Thanks,  no — I  have  taken  the  pledge.  Carbo-hydrates 
are  so  fattening." 

"A  glass  of  Benedictine  or  wine  of  cocoa  ?  Come  now, 
a  cordial  ?" 

"I  drink  nothing  but  creme  de  menthe  or  champagne." 

Earlcote  gave  the  instructions  to  Dushka  in  the  usual 
way,  and  Kitty  arched  her  pretty  brows  in  surprise  as 
she  saw  Dushka  walk  away  and  return  with  the  creme  de 
menthe  without  having  received  any  oral  order. 

"Why  didn't  you  have  the  young  man  here  so  I  could 
look  him  over,  as  you  agreed  to  do?  Really,  I'm  rippin' 
mad  at  having  been  mewed  up  in  that  dungeon." 

"You  saw  him  the  other  evening  at  the  Direktor's." 

"Heavens — I  saw  four  unfortunate  young  puppies — 
how  am  I  to  know  which  particular  one  is  the  man?" 

Earlcote  drew  a  newspaper  clipping  from  his  pocket, 
which  reproduced  Richard's  picture,  printed  by  the 
Musical  Gazette  at  the  time  Richard  had  received 
the  appointment  to  illustrate  the  musical  lectures  of  the 
League. 

Kitty  took  it  up  and  looked  at  the  picture  disdain- 
fully. Her  disdain  changed  to  approval. 

"A  nice-looking  boy,"  she  said.  "Precisely  what  do 
you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Briefly — I  want  you,  you  pretty  little  vampire — to 
lure  Richard  away  from  his  Betty." 

"Better  not  call  me  a  vampire.  Better  sugar-coat  this 
job  all  you  can,  if  you  want  me  to  undertake  it,  or  I'll 
drop  it  like  a  hot  cake." 

"Does  the  task  appear  to  you  to  be  very  difficult?" 

"Difficult?"  Kitty  laughed  harshly.  "You  men  are  all 
alike,"  she  said  contemptuously.  "No  matter  how  much 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         261 

a  man  loves  a  woman,  if  another  woman  offers  him  the 
sweetmeats  all  men  desire,  he  doesn't  refuse  them." 

"  'Sweet-meats'  is  good,"  said  Earlcote,  with  unction. 

Kitty  luxuriantly  sipped  the  creme  de  menthe  which 
Dushka  had  brought  her. 

"Aint  it  funny  what  a  difference  just  a  little  Irish  ice- 
berg makes,"  she  hummed.  "The  green  stuff  always 
makes  me  see  the  world  through  rosy  glasses.  How 
much  is  there  in  this  job  for  me?" 

Earlcote  pushed  a  tiny  bag  across  the  table,  and  Kitty 
opened  it  with  fingers  trembling  with  greed,  awkwardly 
spilling  the  contents  upon  the  table.  A  large  blue  dia- 
mond, and  several  smaller  yellow  diamonds,  pattered 
about  the  table,  like  peas.  Earlcote  caught  one  of  them  in 
his  hand,  as  it  was  about  to  roll  to  the  floor. 

"Look  here,"  Kitty  asked  with  sudden  suspicion,  "is 
all  this  junk  real?  Or  are  they  just  chips  of  glass?" 

"I  always  play  fairly,  Miss  Firebrand.  They  are  real 
— right  from  the  treasure  chamber  of  the  Gaekwar  of 
Hajaputani." 

"Well,  it's  a  jolly  lot  of  sparklers  you  are  offering 
me."  Kitty  had  laid  the  stones  one  by  one  upon  her 
arm  lengthwise.  To  keep  them  from  falling  off,  she 
pressed  them  firmly  into  her  white  flesh  with  pretty  af- 
fection. "Jim-dandies,  every  one  of  them.  You  must 
be  mighty  keen  about  this  business  or  you  wouldn't  be 
planking  down  enough  hardware  to  treat  every  chorus 
girl  in  the  old  burg  to  a  small  hot  bird  and  Tiffany  water 
in  Lobster  Square  for  a  year.  Now,  would  you  ?" 

"It  is  possible  that  I  overestimated  your  price." 

"Oh,  I  rake  in  all  I  can,  when  and  where  I  can — be- 
lieve me — but.  .  .  ."  The  pretty  face  darkened.  "Look 
here,  Earlcote,"  she  spoke  imperiously.  "Before  I  start 
on  this  job  I  want  to  know  all  about  it,  I  want  to  know 
what's  what,  I  want  to  know  all  about  the  game.  What 


262 


is  it?  If  you  want  the  engagement  to  this  boy  broken  so 
you  can  get  your  talons  on  the  girl,  I'm  not  with  you 
on  the  deal.  On  the  level,  is  that  your  game?" 

"On  the  level,"  Earlcote  pronounced  the  slang  gingerly, 
"it  is  not." 

"You  will  have  to  tell  me  what  it  is  very  plainly,"  Kitty 
pursued  remorselessly.  "I  am  a  bad  egg,  I  am,  as  you 
hinted  so  delicately  before,  and  I  do  not  like  the  girl 
because — well,  because  I  don't.  But  there  are  a  few  un- 
infected  spots  left  in  my  moral  make-up,  and  if  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  try  monkey  shines  of  any  sort — hypnotic 
or  otherwise,  upon  the  girl,  I  wouldn't  touch  this  propo- 
sition with  a  ten-foot  pole." 

"Calm  yourself,  Miss  Morality.  I  am  not  in  love  with 
the  little  girl.  I  want  to  teach  her  to  sing,  and  the  en- 
gagement has  got  to  be  broken  before  I  can  arouse  her 
ambition." 

"Is  her  voice  really  so  beautiful?" 

"Marvelous."  Earlcote,  astute  observer  of  men  and 
women,  noted  the  ring  of  envy  in  Kitty's  voice.  The 
Kittys  of  this  world  pride  themselves  upon  their  cold- 
bloodedness, when  in  reality  the  passions  that  sway 
womankind — vanity,  jealousy,  envy — lie  so  near  the  sur- 
face that  it  needs  no  Machiavelli  to  manipulate  them. 
Earlcote  was  not  slow  to  take  his  cue.  He  praised  Bet- 
ty's voice  extravagantly,  piled  adjective  upon  adjective, 
metaphor  upon  metaphor,  superlative  upon  superlative. 
At  the  end  of  two  minutes  Kitty  interrupted  him. 

"You  gush  like  a  geyser.  Guess  my  lady  can  look  out 
for  herself,  and  I  hope  to  own  the  sparklers  within  a 
month." 

"And  you'll  make  the  most  of  the  slight  resemblance 
that  exists  between  you  and  Miss  Garside,  won't  you?" 

"Oh,  I'll  make  myself  up  to  look  the  part,  don't  you 
fret."  Kitty  swept  the  gems  into  the  bag  as  one  sweeps 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         263 

bread  crumbs  from  a  table,  and  then  tossed  the  bag 
across  the  table  to  Earlcote.  Suddenly,  frowning  with 
interest,  her  eyes  narrowed  to  scrutinize  more  readily  the 
object  that  was  interesting  her. 

"What's  the  stone  in  your  fob?"  she  asked.  "I've 
never  seen  anything  like  it  before." 

"It's  the  Kasi-Nook." 

"The  Black  Opal  with  the  hoodoo  reputation?" 

"The  same." 

"I  say,"  Kitty  tapped  Earlcote's  sleeve  confidentially, 
"the  sparklers  aren't  in  it  with  that  thing  like  the  face 
of  a  summer  night's  sky.  I'll  take  it  in  pay,  instead  of 
the  other  glass." 

"No,  you  don't.    I  don't  part  with  the  Kasi-Nook." 

"Very  well,  then  find  someone  else  to  pull  off  this 
trick  for  you." 

"Look  here,  Miss  della  Florenzia,"  Earlcote  said,  ca- 
jolingly,  "it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  give  you  this 
hoodoo  gem.  It  would  bring  you  ill-luck." 

"I'm  not  superstitious." 

"Superstitious  or  not  superstitious,  this  gem  has  been 
the  cause  of  untold  tragedies." 

"Then  I  should  think  you  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
get  rid  of  it." 

"It  brings  ill-luck  only  when  come  by  dishonestly. 

"Honestly  come  by 

Fortune  and  joy, 
And  health  it  -will  buy. 
Dishonestly  come  by, 

Health,  -wealth  and  joy 
It  will  surely  destroy. 

"It  was  given  to  me  by  the  Gaekwar,  in  hopes  it  would 
bring  me  some  good  fortune  to  compensate  for  the  ter- 
rible disaster  which  had  befallen  me  at  his  court." 


364          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Well,  I  like  your  nerve !  Am  I  not  earning  it  ?  And 
if  you  earn  something,  you  come  by  it  honestly,  don't 
you?  I'm  in  earnest  about  this,  Earlcote." 

She  began  buttoning  her  gloves,  pulled  her  furs  closer 
about  her  shoulders  and  regarded  Earlcote  menacingly. 
Earlcote,  seeing  her  determined,  haggled  a  while  longer, 
and  then  said  brusquely, 

"Oh,  very  well,  have  you  own  way.  By  the  by,  there 
is  a  question  I  would  like  to  ask  you.  Can  you  speak 
English,  or  only  slang?" 

Kitty  laughed  goodnaturedly. 

"Sure  thing,  I  can  hand  out  the  high-brow  slush  as 
well  as  anybody,  but  no  sane  New  Yorker  returning  to 
the  old  burg  from  the  European  Hinterland  would  think 
of  speaking  anything  but  the  vernacular  of  the  home 
tepee.  So  let's  get  down  to  hard-pan.  Trot  out  some 
hard-hearted  facts.  How  and  where  do  I  meet  our  Jo- 
seph?" 

Earlcote's  lips  compressed  themselves  into  an  unbe- 
lievably thin  line. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  XV 

It  was  only  when  Betty  reached  home  that  she  re- 
membered the  set  of  cut  bank  bills  which  she  had  taken 
up  from  the  table.  She  had  meant  to  return  them  to 
Earlcote  before  leaving.  Covered  with  shame  and  con- 
fusion she  sat  down  in  the  center  of  the  Davenport. 
Why  had  she  allowed  a  silly  spirit  of  bravado  to  usurp 
her  better  judgment?  What  if  burglars  were  to  get  into 
the  room  that  night  and  steal  them?  If  she  was  unable 
to  return  them  to  Earlcote,  on  demand,  or  without,  was 
she  herself  any  better  than  a  thief? 

She  propounded  to  herself  a  series  of  similarly  sooth- 
ing questions,  with  the  result  that  she  was  almost  fever- 
ish with  fear  by  dinner  time.  She  dared  not  return  them 
by  messenger  for  fear  the  messenger  might  lose  them 
or  be  robbed.  She  did  not  know  where  to  hide  them  at 
night.  Finally  she  telephoned  a  telegram  to  be  sent  to 
Earlcote.  Her  message  ran: 

"Will  you  be  in  town  to-morrow?  If  so,  where  can 
I  see  you?" 

She  flattered  herself  that  the  message  was  so  worded 
as  to  convey  nothing  of  her  ulterior  motive  in  wishing 
to  see  Earlcote.  An  hour  later  she  received  an  answer: 

"If  you  insist  on  returning  articles  of  value  now  shall 
ascribe  conduct  to  fear.  If  determined,  appoint  hour 
and  place  and  I  will  be  at  hand.  EARLCOTE." 

Betty  sent  no  answer  to  this.  She  was  mortally  afraid 
of  Earlcote,  and  of  keeping  the  mutilated  bills,  but  she 
was  still  more  afraid  of  letting  him  know  that  she  was 
afraid. 

265 


266         THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART 

She  went  to  her  room,  to  devise  a  place  of  safekeeping 
for  the  wretched  things.  Finally  she  put  them  in  a  small 
chamois  bag  in  which  her  mother  had  carried  money  in 
traveling,  and  this  bag  she  suspended  about  her  neck 
from  a  loop  of  tape. 

Then,  although  it  was  only  eight  thirty,  and  she  was 
not  in  the  least  sleepy,  she  opened  her  Davenport  and 
went  to  bed.  Shivering,  not  with  cold  but  with  nervous- 
ness, she  pulled  the  bed-clothes  up  under  her  ears,  twist- 
ing the  pillow  into  such  shape  that  it  screened  the  gas 
jet  from  her  eyes. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  creature  comfort  of  lying  snugly 
in  bed  on  a  cold  midwinter  night  among  the  harmonious 
surroundings  of  her  luxuriously  furnished  room,  pre- 
vailed over  her  mental  discomfort.  Then  that  reasserted 
itself. 

Her  brain  seemed  on  fire.     Thoughts  unmanageable 
and  evading  capture,  flitted  hither  and  thither.     Only 
one  fact  was  distinct  and  paramount.    She  was  a  coward, 
an  unspeakable,  thoroughgoing,  miserable  coward.     She 
was  afraid  of  Earlcote,  and  of  the  money,  and  most  of 
all  she  was  afraid  to  tell  Richard  just  what  had  happened. 
He  had  bitterly  opposed  her  going,  and  she  did  not  know  t 
what  would  happen  if  he  were  to  learn  of  Earlcote's  in-j 
credible  impertinence. 

But  she  longed  for  Dick's  protection.  At  the  moment 
she  wished  ardently,  in  spite  of  her  chronic  fear  of  mar-( 
riage,  that  she  and  Dick  were  married.  She  wanted  his 
name,  she  wanted  the  public  brand  upon  her  of  being 
his  possession.  She  wanted  all  the  world,  Earlcote  par- 
ticularly, to  know  that  Dicky  was  her  legitimate  pro- 
tector. She  wanted  to  shift  the  responsibility  for  certain 
decisions  from  her  own  weak  shoulders  to  his.  Never 
had  she  felt  so  supinely  helpless,  so  clingingly,  almost 
cringingly  feminine  in  her  dependence  upon  Richard.  * 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         267 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  very  selfish  in  not 
procuring  the  scholarship  for  Dicky  at  the  expense  of  the 
personal  discomfort  involved  for  herself,  for  she  had 
little  doubt  that  Earlcote's  proposition  to  this  effect  had 
been  perfectly  sincere.  But  she  felt  that  she  did  not 
have  the  moral  strength  required  for  the  carrying  out 
of  such  a  distasteful  arrangement.  It  was  an  arrange- 
ment requiring  superhuman  courage,  and  this  she  did  not 
pretend  to  possess.  She  had  her  good  points,  but  cour- 
age was  not  one  of  them. 

Suddenly  she  decided  that  she  would  tell  Richard  she 
was  willing  to  marry  him  at  once.  She  remembered  the 
memorable  scene  between  them  in  which  he  had  told 
her  that  he  would  not  marry  her  unless  her  attitude 
toward  marriage  changed  very  materially.  Betty  was  at 
loss  to  know  whether  the  change  that  had  occurred  in 
her  outlook  would  seem  adequate  to  him. 

Betty's  mental  processes  were  normally  slow.  She  was 
not  one  of  your  Catling  gun  thinkers,  whose  meditations 
'zigzag  across  the  horizon  of  the  mind  with  lightning-like 
rapidity.  She  had  earnestly  striven  to  modify  her  views, 
but  her  feelings  remained  unaltered.  Would  Dick  con- 
sider that  the  change  was  sufficiently  great  to  warrant 
marriage  ? 

A  flood  of  tenderness,  of  gratitude  for  the  love  which 
he  showed  her  in  a  thousand  and  one  unconscious  actions 
every  day  welled  up  in  her.  She  heard  him  come  in,  talk 
to  Mrs.  Presbey  in  the  parlor  and  then  walk  upstairs. 
She  thought  how  sweet  it  would  be  if  she  had  the  right 
to  call  to  him  now  and  have  him  take  her  in  his  arms, 
and  fall  asleep  thus. 

Her  cheeks  flushed.  Her  innate  modesty  made  even 
;these  feelings,  feelings  so  steeped  in  affection  as  to  render 
them  wholly  unsensual,  seem  indecorous.  And  suddenly 
she  remembered  the  flood  of  tenderness,  new  and  never- 


268         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

felt-before,  which  had  invaded  her  the  evening  of  Earl- 
cote's  scathing  criticism,  while  she  held  Richard  in  her 
arms.  She  divined  that  she  had  stood  upon  the  thresh- 
old of  the  miracle  that  night. 

She  felt,  too,  that  she  had  been  cheating  Richard  of 
something  which  should  have  been  his  for  some  time. 
He  had  been  exquisitely,  divinely  considerate  of  her. 
Now  that  she  had  had  a  little  experience  with  men,  now 
that  Archie  had  ogled  her  and  Earlcote  had  ridden 
roughshod  over  every  maidenly  instinct  of  modesty  and 
reserve,  she  was  able  to  appreciate  Richard's  delicacy  and 
restraint. 

She  understood  now — so  much  at  least  had  she  learned, 
that  Richard  was  suffering  intensely.  She  pitied  him. 
She  screwed  up  her  courage  to  a  mighty  act  of  heroism. 
She  would  lie  to  him — pretend  to  feelings  which  she  as 
yet  did  not  own.  It  was  true,  he  had  succinctly  and 
emphatically  stigmatized  such  pretense  on  a  woman's  part 
as  shameless,  but  to  her  it  still  seemed  that  the  shame- 
lessness  was  in  feeling,  not  in  pretending  to  feel. 

She  heard  Dicky  tiptoe  softly  to  her  door.  Evidently 
he  was  worried  about  her. 

She  was  seized  with  an  impulse  to  call  to  him  to 
wait,  while  she  dressed  and  tidied  up  her  room,  and  tell 
him  the  great  virtuous  lie  then  and  there.  She  had  a 
dim  notion  that  before  she  had  finished  telling  him  the 
lie,  through  the  magic  of  his  presence,  the  lie  might  be 
converted  into  a  truth.  But  just  because  of  this  pre- 
monition, she  was  unable  to  carry  out  her  decision.  She 
still  clung  to  her  own  point  of  view.  She  crept  to  the 
door. 

"Dick!" 

"Betty— Sweet-heart,  you're  not  ill?" 

"No,  darling." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?    Any  powder?    Drug?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         269 

"No,  Dicky,  I  need  neither  powder  nor  drug." 

"What  then?" 

"Dicky,  darling,  play  me  something — anything." 

"Gladly.    Good-night,  dearest." 

"Good-night." 

She  crept  back  to  bed.  From  the  adjoining  room, 
muffled  by  intervening  closets  and  hallways,  floated  the 
strains  of  Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song.  Betty  loved  the 
gentle  music,  gentle  as  any  shepherd's  roundelay.  To- 
night it  seemed  more  adorable  than  ever.  She  turned  out 
the  gas,  and  crept  back  to  bed.  Her  last  conscious 
thought  was,  "Why  should  my  Dicky,  who  can  make 
such  heavenly  music,  not  be  content  to  love  as  if  we 
were  disembodied  spirits — spirits  unfettered  and  un- 
dimmed  by  the  trammels  of  the  flesh  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

It  took  Betty  several  days  to  screw  her  courage  to 
the  sticking  point.  More  than  once  she  essayed  to  speak 
to  Richard,  but  Richard  was  somewhat  unapproachable 
these  days.  The  wrecking  of  his  hopes  regarding  the 
European  scholarship  hurt  him  cruelly,  and  his  Betty 
was  responsible  for  suffering  of  a  very  different  kind. 
Between  the  two  agonies  he  felt  that  the  only  way  in 
which  he  could  "keep  a  stiff  upper  lip"  was  to  ensconce 
himself  in  an  armor  of  cool,  supercilious  indifference. 

Betty  understood  all  this  thoroughly,  but  she  did  not 
possess  the  hardihood,  the  robust  assurance  necessary  to 
break  through  Richard's  reserve. 

One  evening  he  dropped  a  note  on  her  desk,  asking  her 
not  to  wait  for  him  at  the  office,  and  not  to  have  Mrs. 
Presbey  wait  supper  for  him  at  home.  It  was  after  ten 
when  he  came  in,  and  whistling  blithely,  he  ran  up  the 
stairs  three  steps  at  a  time.  He  rapped  vigorously  at 
Betty's  door.  She  opened  it  for  him.  His  face  was 
radiant. 

"What's  happened?"  she  asked. 

"Guess." 

"Europe?" 

His  face  quivered  slightly. 

"No." 

"Money?" 

"Yes." 

Briefly  he  told  her  that  Mr.  Telfer  was  interested  in 
a  new  concern  which  imported  music  from  abroad.  He 
was  to  play  new  music  sent  on  approval  one  night  a  week, 

270 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         271 

and  Mr.  Telfer  was  carrying  him  on  the  payroll  for  an 
additional  "ten  spot." 

"Oh,  Dick,  how  perfectly  splendid!  If  you  are  eco- 
nomical, Europe  will  be  feasible  after  all." 

"In  a  few  years,  yes.  Meanwhile,  without  jeopardizing 
my  hope  of  Europe,  it  makes  something  else  more  feas- 
ible than  ever." 

"Does  it?" 

He  came  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  with  gentle  force 
took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  her  about  so  that 
she  faced  him.  Her  eyes  avoided  his.  Suddenly  she 
said, 

"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  ask  me  to  marry  you  again, 
Dicky?" 

"Didn't  I,  just  now?" 

"Did  you?" 

"And  you  answer  with  a  question." 

"Did  I  ?  What  an  absent-minded  beggar  I  am,  Dicky. 
Please  ask  me  to  again. 

"Elizabeth  Garside,  are  you  ready  to  marry  me  ?" 

"Richard  Pryce,  I  am." 

"Betty,  you  know  what  I  mean  by  putting  the  question 
that  way." 

"Dicky,  I  know." 

"Betty — this  is  a  very  serious  matter.  You  are  cer- 
tain, dear,  that  you  feel  the  right  way  about  marriage 
now?" 

Betty's  heart  beat  wildly.  The  moment  had  arrived 
for  launching  the  great,  white  virtuous  lie  upon  a  credu- 
lous lover.  She  said  bravely: 

"I've  changed,  Richard." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "I  was  beginning  to  despair.  I  was 
disheartened,  discouraged,  utterly  discouraged.  Then  he 
kissed  her  lips,  kissed  them  lingeringly,  hungrily.  In- 


872         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

wardly  Betty  recoiled  from  that  kiss.  But  she  gave  no 
outward  sign.  She  simply  closed  her  eyes  and  allowed 
the  swift  current  of  his  passion  to  brush  over  her  as  it 
listed. 

"Betty,"  He  was  almost  incoherent.  Held  in  check, 
trampled  upon,  disregarded,  flaunted,  whipped  out  of 
sight,  his  passion  was  now  an  aggression,  a  tempest,  a 
whirlpool.  Again  and  again  he  whispered,  "It  is  too 
good  to  be  true."  Again  and  again  he  kissed  her  pas- 
sive mouth,  and  her  throat,  and  her  shoulders,  gleaming 
white  through  the  thin  black  lace  waist,  Still  he  re- 
strained himself.  Betty  felt  the  delicacy  of  sentiment,  the 
reverence  for  herself  implied  by  this  restraint,  and  she 
was  more  determined  than  ever  to  play  the  farce  to  the 
finish  without  allowing  him  to  guess  her  indisposition 
for  the  completion  of  their  love.  The  thought  was  an 
unhappy  one. 

There  came  sweeping  over  her  again  with  torrential 
force  all  her  terror  of  marriage — the  strange  feeling  of 
panic  and  horror  and  outraged  modesty  which  comes  at 
times  to  every  woman,  and  which  no  man,  perhaps,  can 
fathom  or  comprehend.  It  was  unfortunate,  further- 
more, that  Richard  should  have  kissed  her  eyes  at  this 
moment,  kissed  them  with  such  vehemence  that  she  felt 
impelled  to  open  them.  What  he  read  in  her  eyes  so- 
bered him  in  an  instant. 

"Betty,  it's  not  true — you've  been  deceiving  me." 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  might  continue  to  lie. 

"Only  for  your  sake,  Dicky." 

"Betty !" 

"I  was  so  sorry  for  you,  Dicky.  You've  had  so  much 
trouble  lately.  I  wanted  to  make  you  happy." 

"Sorry  for  me!"  He  rose,  and  walked  through  the 
room,  rumpling  his  hair  with  his  long  nervous  fingers. 
He  laughed  gratingly.  "Sorry  for  me — because  I'm  a 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         273 

rotten  failure,  because  you  think  I  will  never  amount 
to  anything." 

"Dick,  how  can  you?  How  can  you?  Sorry  because 
that  toad  of  an  Earlcote  cheated  you  out  of  an  oppor- 
tunity." 

"And  to  make  it  up  for  me  in  some  way  you  were 
going  to  sacrifice  yourself!"  He  was  terribly  excited. 
His  mouth  twitched,  the  thin,  agile  fingers  shot  through 
the  heavy  crop  of  hair  incessantly.  "In  Heaven's  name," 
he  broke  out  finally,  "what  do  you  take  me  for?  I 
thought  I  made  that  plain, — I  thought — "  he  broke  off, 
ejaculating  incoherent  words. 

"Dicky,  listen  to  me,  I  did  not  deceive  you  wholly. 
I've  changed  immeasureably.  I  am  trying  to  change.  I 
want  to  understand  now.  I  am  anxious  to  understand. 
I — Oh,  Dick,  won't  you  make  things  a  little  easier  for 
me?" 

He  came  and  sat  down  beside  her.  But  he  did  not 
touch  her.  He  did  not  dare  to  put  his  arms  around  her, 
for  fear  that  the  high  criterion  of  conduct  which  he  had 
set  himself  would  then  become  impossible.  It  was  Quix- 
otic— it  was  perhaps  blunderingly  stupid.  But  Richard 
had  high  notions  of  what  he  owed  his  Betty.  He  would 
win  her  in  his  own  high-minded  way,  or  not  at  all. 

"You  mean,  Belty,  you  would  like  to  feel  that  you 
understand  the  universal  need  of  womanhood  when  in 
love?" 

"Yes,  Dick.  Can't  you  let  it  go  at  that?  I  do  not 
believe  I  am  capable  of  any  deeper  feeling.  Perhaps 
some  women  are.  But  I  know  this,  Dick.  I  could  not 
love  you  more  dearly  than  I  do.  It  couldn't  be  Dick. 
You  are  my  first  thought  in  the  morning,  my  last  thought 
at  night.  You  are  with  me  all  the  time.  I  think  of  your 
dear  face,  your  beautiful  hands,  and  your  heart,  Dicky — 


274         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

don't  laugh  at  me — your  heart  of  gold.  You're  with  me 
always,  all  the  time.  Since  I  know  you,  Dick.  It  seems 
to  me  I  have  not  been  alone  one  second.  Dick,  I  couldn't 
love  you  any  more,  could  I  ? 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  kissed  them  with  gen- 
tle passion. 

"Betty!"  he  whispered,  his  voice  hoarse  with  sudden 
-desire,  "Betty!" 

"Dick,  I  am  asking  you  to  marry  me." 

He  jumped  up,  and  resumed  his  march  around  the 
room,  his  tapering,  strong  fingers  as  usual  at  work  upon 
"his  hair.  He  was  shaking  with  suppressed  feeling,  but 
he  held  valiantly  to  the  light  as  he  saw  it.  Suddenly, 
controlled  once  more,  he  came  to  her  side,  and  dropped 
on  his  knees,  putting  his  arms  around  her  waist. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  "darling — because  you  have  never 
felt  the  fires  of  passion  you  cannot  comprehend  what 
suffering  has  been  my  portion.  But  you  can  at  least 
understand  that  my  willingness  to  wait  for  you  is  an 
earnest  of  my  deep  and  reverent  love  for  you." 

"Yes,  Dick,  I  understand  that.  And  I,  dear,  love  you 
so  well,  that  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  heart,  I  lied  to 
you,  I  lied,  Dicky.  Do  you  realize  what  that  means  to 
a  girl  like  me?" 

"Sweetheart,  I  do.  I  love  you  so  well  that  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  you  may  some  day  judge  me  for  marrying 
you  prematurely,  for  accepting  the  gift  of  your  love 
before  acceptance  of  mine  seems  to  you  also  a  gift,  not 
an  imposition.  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  shrink  from 
me  in  any  way,  least  of  all,  in  that  way.  In  ordinary 
friendship,  darling,  we  do  not  use  our  friends.  It's  not 
nice,  not  ethical.  Any  gift  a  friend  makes  us,  we  accept 
gladly  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  given.  But  we  resent 
the  gift  of  anything  that  is  not  cheerfully,  even  eagerly 
given.  But  you  are  taking  it  for  granted  that  I  am  will- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         275 

ing  to  accept  the  greatest  gift  one  person  can  make  an- 
other without  adequate  return.  I  love  you  too  well, 
dearest,  to  merely  accept  your  love.  Not  until  you  can 
honestly  surrender  every  fiber,  every  atom  of  body  and 
soul  to  me,  can  I  take  the  gift  of  your  love.  A  heart 
for  a  heart,  a  soul  for  a  soul,  only  in  that  way  can  the 
stronger  tie  between  man  and  woman  be  cemented  sanely, 
without  prejudice  to  either  or  both. 

"And  I  am  sure,  sweetheart,  that  one  day  you  will 
realize  all  this.  I  am  certain,  darling,  that  under  the 
surface  of  snow  there  slumbers  the  volcanic  heart  of  a 
true  woman." 

''Why  do  you  think  so,  Dicky?" 

"Because  your  thoughts  focus  a  good  deal  on  this 
point.  If  it  were  otherwise,  if  you  were  defective,  a 
woman  incapable  of  love,  you  would  have  married  me 
long  ago  without  giving  thought  to  anything  but  your 
carving  cloths  and  pillow  shams.  But  you  have  delved 
beneath  the  surface,  darling,  and  the  fact  is  a  telling 
one." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  Dicky."  Betty  said  humbly. 
"I  hope  you  are.  I  hope  so  principally  for  your  sake." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Dick  went  to  his  room  a  little  later  in  a  pitiably  per- 
turbed state.  His  nerves  were  completely  unstrung. 
And  yet,  with  the  obstinacy  of  the  virtuous  man,  he  told 
himself  that  he  could  not  have  acted  otherwise.  The 
feminine  part  of  his  nature  gave  him  an  undue  and  per- 
haps hurtful  insight  into  the  nature  of  a  woman's  heart, 
and  it  was  intolerable  for  him  to  think  that  he  might 
roughly  tamper  with  the  delicate  adjustment  of  Betty's 
woman  nature,  possibly  flawing  and  scarring  it  for  all- 
time. 

Sleep  evaded  him.  His  blood  sang  in  his  ears.  His 
imagination  was  burning  torchwise,  became  riotous,  be- 
came more  and  more  bold.  He  fancied  himself  in  the 
sanctuary  of  Betty's  arms — at  night — alone,  fancied  that 
her  chaste  lips  were  raining  burning  kisses  upon  his, 
fancied  that  he  felt  her  head  with  its  fountain  of  black 
curls  pillowed  upon  his  breast. 

The  milk  wagons  were  rattling  past  when  Richard  fin- 
ally fell  asleep. 

This  interview  occurred  on  Tuesday  evening.  On 
Wednesday  Betty  left  at  three,  while  Richard,  as  usual, 
was  slated  to  remain  at  the  store  during  afternoon  and 
evening.  At  about  five  o'clock  a  young  lady,  whose  ad- 
vent caused  a  ripple  of  excitement,  entered  the  store. 

"Aint  she  like  Prudy?"  ejaculated  Miss  Connors. 

"She  is  and  she  isn't,"  retorted  Miss  Sharpe. 

"Well,  Prudy  ain't  never  had  such  a  corking  suit. 
Look  at  them  'luppells,'  will  you  ?  And  them  dinky  little 
Frenchy-looking  buttons  down  the  back." 

276 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         277 

Richard  had  started  forward  as  the  girl  entered,  but 
had  immediately  seen  his  mistake  in  confounding  a 
stranger  with  Betty,  and  was  about  to  retire  to  his  own 
little  cubby-hole,  when  he  saw  that  the  young  lady  was 
walking  directly  toward  him  with  the  evident  intention  of 
speaking  to  him. 

"Mr.  Richard  Pryce?" 

"That's  my  name." 

"I've  been  told  to  ask  for  you."  Kitty  spoke  briefly,  in 
a  businesslike  way.  She  had  been  asked  to  play  some 
piano  duets  with  a  friend  at  an  evening  reception  and 
she  desired  to  purchase  some  music  of  this  description. 

Richard  had  the  desired  scores  brought,  and  while  she 
was  fingering  the  music,  offering  this  and  that  criticism 
as  to  editions,  she  said: 

"I'll  want  someone  to  come  up  and  play  these  duets 
with  me.  Several  years  have  elapsed  since  I  played  them, 
and  as  I  do  very  little  piano  playing  these  days,  I'm 
not  quite  certain  of  myself.  Could  I  make  an  arrange- 
ment to  have  someone  call,  someone  who  knows  enough 
about  music  to  point  out  the  mistakes  which  I  am  liable 
to  make?" 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  call  whenever  convenient  to  you." 

"This  evening?" 

"Certainly.    At  what  time?" 

"Let  me  see.  Is  half  past  eight  too  early,  or  too  late  ? 
[Will  that  time  suit  you?" 

"Perfectly." 

"By  the  way — I'm  Katarina  della  Florenzia."  She 
handed  him  a  card.  "That's  my  stage-name,  as  you,  of 
course,  know,  and  there's  my  hotel  address.  You  had 
better  ask  for  Miss  Florence  at  the  hotel." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  frankly  at  Richard.  He 
had  studied  her  features  at  leisure,  telling  himself  that 
her  resemblance  to  Betty  was  really  very  elusive  and 


378         THE    VOICE   OF    THE    HEART 

slight.  But  when  Kitty  looked  at  him,  the  dark  eyes,  so 
very  much  like  Betty's  in  color,  startled  him.  "What  a 
pleasant,  unaffected  little  girl,"  he  thought,  "even  if  she 
is  a  vaudeville  star." 

That  was  all.  It  had  all  been  very  brief  and  business- 
like, but  her  going  left  him  in  a  flutter  of  excitement.  It 
was  pleasant  to  look  forward  to  spending  the  evening 
with  a  girl  who  resembled  Betty,  though  ever  so  vaguely, 
pleasanter  at  any  rate,  than  standing  behind  the  counter 
and  answering  the  foolish  questions  of  musical  igno- 
ramuses. 

Then  he  wondered  whether  he  ought  to  go  home  and 
change  to  a  Tuxedo.  He  spent  a  good  half  hour  debating 
the  point,  then  decided  to  ask  Mr.  Telfer's  advice.  But 
the  amiable  and  easy-going  principal  of  the  establishment 
at  this  moment  made  his  exit  through  the  side-door  with 
a  sheaf  of  new  librettos  under  his  arm,  a  sign  that  he 
had  left  for  the  day. 

Then  Richard  decided  suddenly  to  go  home  and  don 
his  Tuxedo. 

After  all  he  was  so  busy  with  a  multitude  of  harassing 
details  that  he  could  not  even  find  time  to  go  to  a  res- 
taurant for  supper,  much  less  to  go  home  for  his  clothes. 
So  he  sent  a  messenger  boy  to  Mrs.  Presbey  with  request 
to  send  him  his  Tuxedo,  and  dined  in  his  office  on  a 
ham  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  milk.  There  also,  he  made 
his  toilet,  bestowing  as  much  care  upon  it  as  if  he  were 
going  to  a  ball.  He  wanted  to  appear  right  in  the  eyes 
of  the  girl  who  resembled  his  Betty.  Her  hair  was  like 
Betty's,  and  her  skin  was  as  dazzlingly  white,  and  alto- 
gether there  was  a  resemblance  of  a  sort.  But  now  that 
he  remembered  her  eyes,  which  had  seemed  so  like  Betty's 
when  she  looked  at  him  the  first  time,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  their  expression  was  very  different.  Betty's  eyes 
were  dreamy  and  pure — dreamy  as  a  fleecy  cloud,  pure 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         279 

as  cold  spring  water  and  as  clear  and  cold.  But  in  the 
vaudeville  actress's  eyes  was  a  scintillating,  titillating 
twinkling  something  the  mere  recollection  of  which 
puzzled  him  and  made  him  strangely  nervous. 

Finally  he  was  dressed.  If  Kitty  had  not  expected  him 
to  appear  in  evening  clothes,  he  reflected  that  his  doing 
so  could  not  possibly  be  construed  as  anything  but  a  wish 
to  appear  comme  il  faut. 

It  was  about  quarter  of  nine  when  he  entered  the 
little  parlor  which  Kitty  occupied.  Although  he  had  been 
announced  by  telephone,  she  was  not  in  the  apartment 
when  he  entered,  but  came  in  a  moment  later  from  the 
adjoining  bedroom.  Before  coming  forward  to  greet 
him,  she  hastily  pulled  the  portieres  to,  and  while  he 
apologized  for  his  tardiness,  he  wondered  again  at  the 
resemblance,  and  now  it  seemed  to  him  much  more  pro- 
nounced than  in  the  afternoon. 

Kitty,  as  Archie  had  truthfully  said,  was  a  genius  at 
makeup.  Such  a  talent  presupposes  the  existence  of  a 
certain  degree  of  psychological  insight,  and  this  Kitty 
undoubtedly  possessed.  She  had  played  many  parts  both 
off  and  on  the  stage,  and  among  those  parts  was  that  of 
ingenue.  To-night  she  had  dressed  for  her  part  with 
extraordinary  and  self-repressive  skill.  Gone  from  her 
person  was  every  chicanery  of  toilet  which  to  the  demi- 
mondaine  is  an  indispensable  adjunct  of  dress;  gone  was 
towering,  complicated  coiffure;  gone  were  diamond- 
studded,  crocodile-shaped  bracelets  and  three  tier  deep 
serpentine  rings;  gone  was  golden  meshwork  clasped 
with  sapphires  as  a  net  for  the  hair ;  gone  was  the  refined 
suggestiveness  of  varying  sleeves;  gone  every  tell-tale 
token  that  would  have  proclaimed  her  a  woman  of  the 
world.  The  girl  that  stood  with  clasped  hands  and  down- 
cast eyes  before  Richard  Pryce,  was  as  innocent-looking, 
as  virginal  and  sweetly,  fragrantly  maidenly  as  Betty  her- 


280         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

self.  Nor  had  Kitty  overdressed  the  part.  The  plain 
white  gown,  it  is  true,  was  a  chiffon  voile,  not  ordinary 
cotton  voile  such  as  Betty,  more  likely  than  not,  would 
have  worn,  and  the  lace  with  which  it  was  trimmed  was 
genuine  Italian  filet.  Her  fingers  were  innocent  of  all 
but  one  ring,  the  customary  solitaire  affected  by  the 
young  girl  of  good  family.  Her  hair  was  dressed  simply, 
girlishly,  with  only  one  white  rose  tucked  among  a  bil- 
lowing mass  of  ebony.  A  beautiful  pair  of  superbly 
rounded  arms  peeped  from  sleeves  that  were  not  too 
short. 

So  fine  was  Kitty's  art  that,  without  having  been  in 
Betty's  immediate  proximity,  she  divined  that  Betty 
would  eschew  every  perfume  for  her  healthy,  wholesome, 
beautiful  young  body,  save  that  given  by  Nature  and 
stainless  cleanliness.  And  to  simulate  that  fragrance  of 
spotless  purity,  Kitty,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years, 
wore  undergarments  unperfumed  with  heliotrope  or 
violet,  but  laid  away  for  three  days  among  a  smothering 
mass  of  powdered  Italian  orris-root,  which,  she  knew, 
was  the  only  possible  means  of  approximating  the  in- 
'describably  sweet  and  evanescent  perfume  of  virginal 
youth  such  as  Betty's. 

"Will  we  go  to  work  at  once?"  she  asked,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  Richard's  face.  He  mumbled  assent  and,  with 
clumsy  fingers,  began  untying  the  package  of  mwsic  which 
lay  unopened  as  his  boy  had  delivered  it. 

Side  by  side  they  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  Kitty 
began  asking  him  questions  about  the  music,  about  his 
conception  of  a  correct  interpretation.  She  had  chosen 
Jensen's  titillating  Wedding  Music,  Moszkowski's  de- 
lirious Spanish  Dances  and  Brahms'  Valse,  Op.  39,  and 
she  indicated  her  wish  to  begin  with  the  dances. 

"I'm  very  uncertain  about  them,"  she  said,  adding  as 
an  afterthought  that  she  earnestly  hoped  he  would  not 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         281 

hesitate  to  correct  any  blunders  in  her  interpretation. 
Richard  thought  her  deference  adorable. 

Kitty  played  very  well.  She  blundered  twice  or  thrice, 
noticed  her  breaks  herself,  and  asked  Richard  to  play 
the  passages  with  her  again  and  again  until  she  was 
letter-perfect.  It  was  a  curious  fact  which  escaped 
Richard's  attention  that  the  passages  which  she  desired 
him  to  play  with  her  once  more  were  invariably  highly 
colored  phrases,  music  so  pulsing  and  vibrant  and  seduc- 
tive that  they  were  bound  to  communicate  their  throbbing 
intensity  to  the  performer,  and  every  time  that  Kitty 
asked  Richard  to  replay  a  passage  with  her,  she  accom- 
panied her  request  with  a  glance  of  her  eyes,  agleam  and 
aflame  with  a  deep,  rich  glow  that  made  Richard's  breath 
come  hard  and  fast.  Kitty  prided  herself  that  she  could 
run  her  prey  to  ground  without  speaking  or  dancing  or 
walking,  merely  by  judicious  use  of  eyes  and  lids  and 
lashes.  She  had  on  one  occasion  in  Vienna  made  a  bet 
to  this  effect  and  won  it,  the  object  upon  which  she  prac- 
ticed her  arts  in  that  instance  being  a  notorious  roue, 
who  had  arrived  at  the  age  which  Voltaire  describes  as 
the  age  when  our  vices  leave  us,  not  we  our  vices.  To 
a  woman,  who  could  make  easy  conquest  of  a  case- 
hardened,  seasoned  libertine  and  who  knew  every  femi- 
nine trick  calculated  to  lure  and  snare,  a  Richard  Pryce 
seemed  contemptibly  easy  prey. 

After  they  had  played  Moszkowski's  Dances  three 
times,  Richard's  nerves  were  jumping  like  live  wires, 
and  Kitty  suddenly  exclaimed : 

"Before  we  go  on,  we  really  must  have  something  to 
eat.  And  to  drink.  The  other  music  will  not  give  me 
so  much  trouble." 

It  appeared  that  she  had  prepared  a  light  repast  con- 
sisting of  caviare  and  smoked  salmon  sandwiches  and 
champagne,  in  a  small  alcove  which  Richard  had  not 


282         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

perceived  before.  Into  this  she  invited  Richard.  The 
alcove  was  really  a  tiny  apartment  by  itself,  shut  off 
by  heavy  portieres  from  the  larger  room  in  which  they 
had  been  sitting.  Violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley  stood 
on  the  table,  and  filled  the  room  with  their  fragrance, 
and  a  large  lamp,  with  a  dark  red  shade,  was  its  sole 
method  of  illumination. 

"I  won't  ring  for  a  waiter  to  open  the  champagne," 
said  Kitty.  "I  dare  say  you  and  I  can  manage  it  alone. 
Can't  we?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  Richard  found  himself  saying,  which 
was  diametrically  the  opposite  of  what  he  wanted  to  say. 
He  did  not  wish  to  accept  Kitty's  hospitality.  He  had 
a  sudden  horror  of  sitting  down  and  drinking  champagne 
with  her.  The  girl  who  vaguely  resembled  his  Betty 
should  have  conducted  herself  just  as  Betty  would  have 
done.  And  now  he  experienced  a  curious  feeling  of 
resentment  against  his  hostess  because  of  the  resemblance 
which  at  first  had  seemed  a  guarantee  for  her  character 
and  manner  and  morality. 

Somehow  he  opened  a  bottle  of  champagne  neverthe- 
less. Somehow  a  glass  filled  with  the  sparkling  beverage 
found  its  way  into  his  hand.  He  put  it  down  again,  and 
to  hide  the  fact  that  he  was  not  drinking,  he  ate  a 
sandwich.  He  had  had  a  very  light  supper,  and  the 
sandwich  was  delicious,  so  he  ate  another.  Then  Kitty 
bade  him  try  the  other  kind,  and  he  ate  two  little  sand- 
wiches of  that.  Neither  smoked  salmon  nor  caviare 
conduce  to  absolute  temperance;  the  salt  irritated 
Richard's  throat,  and  he  was  ashamed  to  ask  for  a  glass 
of  water,  so  he  sipped  the  champagne,  and  after  he  had 
sipped  it,  he  forgot  his  resolution  not  to  drink  of  it, 
and  emptied  his  first  glass. 

She  began  asking  him  questions,  questions  of  no  mo- 
ment, questions  concerning  trivial  and  commonplace 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         283 

things.  Then,  without  being  questioned,  she  told  him 
intimate  incidents  of  her  own  life,  of  a  stunted  child- 
hood and  deprivation-ridden  youth.  It  is  true,  most  of 
the  pathetic  incidents  were  spurious,  but  how  was 
Richard  to  know  that? 

His  heart  warmed  to  her.  Enchantress  and  vixen  that 
she  was,  she  had,  by  using  pulverized  rock-candy  mixed 
with  a  raw  egg,  modulated  her  commonplace  and  strident 
voice  into  softness  and  pliability.  She  was  very  like 
his  Betty  after  all,  Richard  decided  quite  suddenly.  Of 
course  it  was  all  wrong  for  her  to  be  drinking  champagne 
in  a  dimly  lighted  room  with  a  strange  young  man,  but 
poor  child,  being  so  very  innocent,  the  thought  had 
probably  never  occurred  to  her  that  some  young  men 
were  not  to  be  trusted.  Richard  had  had  some  three 
or  four  glasses  of  champagne  when  he  arrived  at  this 
point  of  his  meditations,  and  he  now  began  to  wish 
earnestly  that  she  would  not  look  at  him,  her  eyes  held 
a  quality  that  made  the  sparkle  of  the  champagne  he 
was  drinking  flat  and  stale  in  comparison.  And  because 
it  was  flat  and  stale,  he  drank  still  another  glass,  and 
another  to  quench  his  unquenchable  thirst. 

"Now,  tell  me  about  yourself?  There  is  something  I 
would  like  to  ask  you.  Would  you  resent  a  personal 
question  ?" 

"Why  should  I?    Between  friends?" 
"I  have  been  told  that  I  slightly  resemble  the  young 
lady  to  whom  you  are  engaged.    Do  I  ?" 
"You  do  and  you  don't." 
"Begin  with  the  don'ts.     In  what  particular?" 
"Well,  for  one  thing — your  eyes  are  different." 
"That  means  that  mine  please  you  less." 
"Hers  would  please  me  more  if  they  possessed  one 
quality  of  yours,"  he  replied,  thinking  that  he  would 
give,  he  knew  not  what,  to  see  in  Betty's  eyes  the  shift- 


284          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  lights  which  proclaimed  a  fiery  temperament,  and 
with  which  Kitty's  eyes  were  replete. 

Kitty's  finesse  was  fiendish.  She  did  not  exclaim 
"Flatterer"  or  "Really,"  or  in  any  way  accept  the  sen- 
tence as  an  amiable  compliment,  but,  with  masterful  simu- 
lation of  sincerity,  began  soberly  to  express  her  dis- 
approval of  it. 

"You  have  no  right,  you  know,  to  say  that,"  she  re- 
buked him  gently.  "The  girl  to  whom  a  man  is  engaged 
should  be  perfect  in  his  eyes." 

"She  is  perfect,  not  only  to  me,  but  in  reality." 

"You  are  a  puzzling  sort  of  person.  If  she  is  perfect, 
why  should  you  wish  her  eyes  like  mine?" 

Richard  opened  his  mouth,  only  to  shut  it  again  with- 
out having  spoken.  He  possessed  the  fine  sense  of 
loyalty  that  made  it  distasteful  to  discuss  Betty  even 
with  Betty's  near-double.  His  brain  was  somewhat  be- 
fogged, but  he  remained  true  to  his  breeding. 

"Why?"  Kitty  questioned  again.  "If  I  were  different 
from  what  I  am,  I  would  be  immensely  pleased  by  what 
you  said.  But  I  like  to  see  men  faithful  in  speech 
and  thought  as  well  as  in  act." 

Richard  flushed  resentfully,  as  he  replied : 

"I  am  faithful  to  Miss  Garside.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  mean.  I  think  you  have  more  temperament  than  she, 
and  I  wish  she  had  just  a  little  of  that." 

"Is  she  cold?" 

"Cold  and  pure  as  snow." 

"It  is  well  to  be  pure  as  snow.  But  sunlight  is  pure 
also,  and  has  the  additional  advantage  of  warmth.  I 
am  sorry  for  you.  Why  do  you  sit  over  there  in  the 
dark,  Mr.  Pryce?  Come,  sit  here,  near  the  table — or 
shall  I  make  room  for  you  here  beside  me  on  the  divan  ?" 

Richard  rose  and  obediently  sat  down  beside  Kitty  on, 
the  divan.  The  action  was  purely  mechanical,  for  he  was. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         285 

so  wholly  occupied  with  the  desire  to  clear  himself  of 
the  imputed  disloyalty  to  Betty  that  unconsciously  he 
obeyed  Kitty's  suggestion  to  change  his  seat,  just  as  a 
well-bred  man  subconsciously  hands  the  salt  and  the 
ketchup  at  table  upon  request,  without  allowing  that 
request  to  penetrate  the  channel  of  thought  in  which 
the  table  talk  is  flowing. 

"That  is  better,"  said  Kitty,  when  he  was  seated  beside 
her. 

"Yes,"  said  Richard,  "that's  better.  His  thoughts  were 
in  a  curious  snarl.  He  wanted  to  further  explain  the 
remark  he  had  made  about  Betty's  temperament  in 
justice  both  to  himself  and  to  her.  He  wanted  to  eluci- 
date her  beauty  of  character  and  spirit — and  blame  him- 
self for  having  normal  desires.  To  do  so,  however, 
would  not  be  quite  honest,  and  he  wanted  to  be  honest. 

All  the  while  Kitty  sat  regarding  him  with  eyes  of 
crepuscular  sheen,  eyes  which  flickered  like  the  fluttering 
motes  of  gold  that  rise  from  a  wood-fire.  He  experienced 
a  desire  to  unbosom  himself  to  Kitty  concerning  Betty's 
strange  lack  of  emotion.  He  felt  certain  that  Kitty 
would  understand — perhaps  be  able  to  help  him.  But 
his  vocabulary  seemed  to  abscond  as  he  tried  to  begin 
his  story. 

Kitty  helped  him. 

"I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  about  your  sweetheart," 
she  said  softly.  "That  is,  if  you  care  to.  She  may 
merely  appear  cold.  We  American  girls  are  brought  up 
that  way,  you  know.  She  will  change." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  You  will  change  her."  Kitty  bent 
forward  so  that  her  face  was  near  Richard's.  She  gazed 
tenderly  into  his  eyes,  her  voice  was  caressing,  soothing, 
alluring.  "I  am  sure  you  are  sweet  and  gentle  with 
her.  Some  day  you  will  have  your  reward.  She  will 


286         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

say,  'I  love  you.  I  adore  you  wholly  and  whole- 
heartedly. I  am  yours,  wholly  yours.' "  She  stressed  the 
last  sentence,  and  the  edge  she  thus  gave  to  it  brought 
out  its  double  meaning. 

"Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  Richard  asked  stammeringly. 
Waves  of  enormous  length  and  sparkling  heat  seemed  to 
leap  from  his  heart  to  his  brain. 

"How  could  it  be  otherwise?"  The  eyes  which  held 
the  love-light  which  all  his  ardor  and  wooing  had  been 
unable  to  bring  to  Betty's  eyes  looked  up  at  him  out 
of  the  face  so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  Betty's.  "Poor  boy 
— poor  boy,  how  you  love  her — the  mere  thought  of  her 
changes  you — makes  you  different — very  different." 

"How  different?" 

Richard's  voice  was  husky.  By  no  effort  could  he 
clear  it. 

"You  know — different.  Poor  boy!  But  believe  me, 
she  would  not  be  cruel  to  you  if  she  only  understood." 

Richard  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"She  does  not  know,"  he  said,  valiantly  defending  his 
absent  love.  "She  is  so  pure.  She  does  not  know." 

"Pure — will  she  be  less  pure  when  she  turns  from 
marble  image  into  a  living  woman?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"It  is  your  own  fault,  I  am  afraid — that  she  is  as  she 
is.  After  all,  you  do  not  really  wish  her  other  than 
she  is." 

"I  do— though  only  in  that  particular." 

"Change  her." 

"I  have  tried,"  he  groaned.  "I  have  tried."  He  sat 
erect,  very  pale,  hair  slightly  disheveled,  shaken,  but 
master  of  himself  once  more.  To  her  chagrin  Kitty 
saw  her  prey  loosening  the  lasso  she  had  thrown  over 
him.  The  discovery  that  he  was  not  as  easy  to  deal  with 
as  she  thought  put  her  on  her  mettle. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         287 

"You  have  not  tried  enough." 

"How?  What  do  you  mean?  Every  legitimate  argu- 
ment." 

"Arguments  instead  of  kisses!" 

"There  has  been  no  dearth  of  kisses." 

"But  to  argue,  to  attempt  to  argue  such  a  point,  you 
dear,  foolish  boy,  when  you  yourself  laud  her  coldness 
and  call  it  purity.  That  undercurrent  of  thought,  you 
know,  is  bound  to  neutralize  any  specific  argument." 

"I  suppose  that  is  true."    Richard  was  wholly  sobered. 

"Poor  boy,"  Kitty's  voice  held  a  cooing,  wooing  quality 
that  sent  poison-tipped  arrows  through  Richard.  "Poor 
boy.  How  pale  you  are,  and  only  from  thinking  of 
her — if  she  saw  you  thus — would  she  not  thaw  ?  I  can- 
not think  she  wouldn't.  .  .  .  To  see  the  man  she  loves 
suffer — what  greater  suffering  for  a  woman !  And  when 
she  knows  that  she  causes  that  suffering — that  it  lies 
in  her  power  to  alleviate  it — in  hers  only " 

Kitty's  voice  trailed  off  into  infinitude,  leaving  the 
phrase  hanging  in  midair,  unfinished,  only  half  its  mean- 
ing expressed,  double  its  meaning  suggested. 

"In  hers  only,"  Richard  repeated.  Intuitively  he  felt 
his  danger  and  he  spoke  the  words  which  he  repeated 
after  Kitty  as  a  sort  of  invocation,  a  prayer  for  de- 
liverance, a  verbal  talisman.  But  the  woman's  eyes  with 
the  titillating,  flickering  light,  and  the  voice  of  honey 
and  cloves,  and  the  white  rose-petal  face,  the  intoxicat- 
ing, heavy  fragrance  of  flowers,  the  dim,  twittering  twi- 
light were  doing  their  deadly  work. 

Sick,  giddy,  feeling  strength  in  him  to  trample  moun- 
tains into  crumbling  dust,  to  snatch  oak  trees  from  their 
century  old  foundations  and  hurl  them  into  space,  to 
take  the  woman  he  loved  into  his  arms  and  hold  her 
against  all  the  world — he  leaned  back  once  more,  and 
once  more  closed  his  eyes.  Once  his  fingers  fumbled 


288         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

through  his  hair,  then,  with  their  latent  powers  of  un- 
expended strength  in  them,  fell  inertly  to  his  side. 

"If  she  could  only  be  brought  to  realize,"  murmured 
the  voice. 

"She  does  not  realize."  He  was  writhing  in  misery, 
but  had  enough  sanity  left  to  defend  her  whom  he 
loved. 

"Poor  boy." 

"Don't  pity  me." 

"But  I  do — I  cannot  help  it.  My  heart  aches  for 
you." 

"It's  sweet  of  you  to  care." 

"Care!    If  I  thought  you  cared  to  have  me  care!" 

He  felt  cool  fingers  laid  on  his  burning  eye-lids. 

"Oh,"  he  gasped.  Then  reached  for  her  fingers  and 
pulled  them  away.  "Don't/'  he  said.  "Please  don't." 

"Don't  what,  Richard?" 

"Don't  touch  me  with  your  fingers." 

"You  are  holding  them." 

He  relinquished  her  hand.  He  tried  to  brace  him- 
self, to  pull  open  his  eyes,  but  instead,  he  felt  upon  his 
eyes  the  soft  pressure  of  lips,  and  a  moment  later  the 
lips  had  closed  upon  his. 

His  inert,  limp  body  became  galvanized  into  towering, 
Herculean  force.  He  took  her  into  his  arms,  and  clasped 
her  to  his  breast,  and  rained  mad  showers  of  blindly 
directed  kisses  upon  the  sweet  upturned  face  lying  in  his 
embrace  with  closed  eyes.  But  he  knew  the  light  that 
lay  behind  the  lids  still  flickered  and  invited,  still 
twinkled  and  harassed,  still  gleamed  and  maddened,  al- 
though the  lids  shut  out  from  his  eyes  all  these  myriad 
caprices. 

Even  while  he  kissed  her  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
doing  a  shameful  thing.  But  he  did  not  care.  He  was 
only  human,  only  flesh  and  blood.  Poor  flesh  and  blood 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         289 

that  ultimately  must  succumb  to  thumbscrews  and  burn- 
ing stake! 

He  was  possessed  to  see  her  eyes  once  more,  and  he 
fell  to  kissing  the  soft  lids,  with  their  sweeping  black 
lashes,  kissing  the  delicate,  sensitive  things  almost  as 
tempestuously  and  as  roughly  as  he  had  kissed  the  lips. 

"Don't,  don't,  you  are  hurting  me.'' 

She  struggled  away  from  him.  Betty,  too,  had  re- 
pulsed him.  Betty's  repulses  had  repulsed  in  good 
earnest,  while  this  girl's  repulse  only  lashed  his  fever 
into  increased  heat.  He  captured  the  hand  that  was 
warding  him  off.  He  possessed  himself  of  the  sweet 
hands  and  arms,  and  kissed  on  with  blind  fury.  Now 
and  then  she  cried,  "Don't,  don't,  you  are  hurting  me," 
and  now  and  then  she  demanded,  "Kiss  my  lips  again." 

He  no  longer  felt  culpable.  He  was  not  mad  now.  He 
had  been  mad  before  when  he  had  resisted  and  sparred. 
It  was  his  Betty,  his  own,  who  was  thus  transformed. 
It  had  been  a  silly  dream  of  his  in  which  he  had  thought 
her  someone  else. 

A  little  later  she  disengaged  herself  from  his  embrace, 
and  leaving  him  sitting  on  the  divan,  his  head  resting 
in  his  cupped  hands,  she  went  to  the  door.  She  re- 
turned with  the  key  in  her  hand. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  and  when  he  looked  up  she  gave 
him  the  key.  He  received  it  uncomprehendingly, 
stupidly.  But  when  she  looked  at  him  with  orbs  that 
swam  in  liquid  fire,  his  stupefaction  gave  way  to  blinding 
comprehension. 

He  stood  with  the  key  in  his  hands,  watching  her  as 
she  retreated  into  the  room  that  adjoined  the  parlor. 
For  a  brief  interlude,  sanity  returned  to  him,  bringing 
with  it  biting  self-denunciation.  He  felt  a  desire  to  drop 
the  key  where  he  stood  and  to  make  his  escape.  The 
odor  of  the  flowers  stifled  him;  the  heat  was  suffocat- 


290          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing ;  he  felt  dazed,  stupid,  heavy ;  it  occurred  to  him  that 
to  leave  now,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  would  be 
the  worst  affront  a  man  could  offer  a  woman.  Curiously 
enough,  he  hardly  thought  of  Betty,  and  yet  she  seemed 
to  be  there  with  him — he  seemed  to  sense  her  presence. 
At  that  a  blind  impulse  seized  him,  and  obeying  it,  he 
made  his  way  out  of  the  alcove,  across  the  room  and 
to  the  door.  He  fitted  the  key  into  the  lock,  and  was 
about  to  open  the  door  through  which  he  firmly  intended 
to  leave. 

"Richard!" 

He  hesitated  before  turning.  He  knew  that  to  turn 
was  to  stay.  And  he  wanted  to  go,  to  get  away.  Had 
Kitty  been  less  of  an  artist  in  the  role  she  had  essayed, 
she  would  have  called  his  name  imperiously  the  second 
time,  and  the  sound  of  a  sharp  tone,  issuing  from  that 
mouth,  so  like  his  Betty's,  would  have  restored  com- 
plete sanity  to  the  boy's  bewildered  brain.  But  Kitty 
was  an  artist.  When  she  spoke  his  name  again,  it  was 
in  an  appealing,  not  a  commanding  tone. 

"Richard !" 

Slowly,  as  if  some  invisible  hand  were  turning  him  on 
a  pivot,  he  turned.  She  was  forced  to  speak  his  name 
a  third  time  before  he  faced  her.  He  started.  She  had 
consummated  one  of  the  lightning  changes  of  dress  for 
which  she  was  noted  and  stood  before  him,  her  black 
curls,  secured  only  with  a  white  ribbon,  flung  over  one 
of  the  pair  of  gleaming  white  shoulders  revealed  by  the 
low-cut  white  kimono  made  of  material  so  diaphanous 
that,  as  the  light  was  burning  brightly  behind  her,  while 
the  apartment  in  which  Richard  stood  was  only  inade- 
quately lighted  by  the  dark  red  drop  light  on  the  table, 
every  line  of  the  exquisite  young  figure,  gracious  curves 
of  bust  and  hips,  and  long  cool  lines  of  torso  and  limbs, 
were  plainly  limned. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         291 

Slowly,  without  speaking,  without  removing  her  liquid 
black  eyes  from  his  face,  she  stepped  back  into  the  ad- 
joining room.  Quickly,  without  speaking,  in  his  eyes 
a  wolfish  gleam,  he  followed. 

His  very  virtue,  the  abstinence  he  had  practiced  all  his 
life,  the  passion  he  had  so  long  suppressed  were  con- 
tributing to  his  undoing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

When  Richard  awoke  it  was  one  o'clock.  One  o'clock 
and  a  moonlight  night!  At  first  he  did  not  remember; 
the  strange  surroundings,  the  wine  he  had  taken  the 
night  before  and  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed  held 
him  for  a  few  moments  in  the  ante-chamber  of  slumber, 
the  strange  state  between  sleeping  and  waking  when  the 
brain  seems  awake  and  the  body  asleep. 

Leaning  upon  an  elbow,  he  glimpsed  his  companion. 
Even  then  remembrance  halted  and  shuffled  stumblingly. 
For  one  moment  he  thought  that  he  had  gone  insane; 
that  there  was  a  lapse  in  his  conscious  memory;  that 
things  had  finally  so  arranged  themselves  that  Betty  had 
become  his  wife. 

At  that  moment  the  moonlight  fell  aslant  his  com- 
panion's face,  and  the  boy  recoiled  in  horror.  Re- 
membrance rushed  over  him  turbulently.  Every  detail 
of  his  shame  came  back  to  him. 

Was  this  the  woman  who  resembled  his  Betty,  as  he 
had  thought?  Waking,  past  mistress  of  acting  that  she 
was,  and  necessarily  in  perfect  control  of  her  facial 
muscles,  Kitty  had  simulated  the  artless  and  innocent 
young  girl  to  perfection ;  asleep,  all  muscles  relaxed,  lack- 
ing the  driving  force  that  temporarily  cancelled  the  traces 
of  evil  living  and  substituted  instead  the  expression  left 
by  sweet  and  gracious  thoughts,  the  only  resemblance  be- 
tween the  two  young  women  was  the  black  hair  and  pale 
complexion,  and  even  the  latter,  in  Betty  always  sug- 
gestive of  the  fragrant  delicacy  of  the  white  rose,  now 

292 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         293 

seemed  coarse-grained  and  unhealthy  and  artificial  in 
Kitty. 

Richard's  heart  seemed  to  vault  out  of  his  body  in  a 
gigantic  parabola.  What  he  remembered  was  too  hideous 
to  be  dwelt  upon.  Fire  ran  through  his  veins. 

Employing  infinite  precaution,  he  crept  from  the  bed, 
gathered  up  his  belongings  and  carried  them  into  the 
sitting  room.  He  dressed  in  the  alcove  with  shaking 
fingers,  in  terror  lest  Kitty  should  awaken.  He  felt  him- 
self unequal  to  facing  her,  unequal  to  deal  with  such  an 
impossible  situation.  The  odor  of  the  dying  flowers 
sickened  him;  the  stale  smell  of  the  champagne  glasses 
and  bottles  produced  nausea.  And  all  the  while  some 
little  mechanism  in  his  head  seemed  to  tick  out  the  words, 
"And  you  thought  her  like  Betty." 

Finally  he  found  himself  outside  in  the  hall.  He  did 
not  wait  for  the  elevator  but  walked  down  the  five  flights 
of  stairs.  His  knees  were  like  jelly;  he  thought  every 
moment  that  he  must  fall.  He  felt  so  very  ill,  that  he 
wondered  vaguely  whether  a  glass  of  something  or  other 
would  not  do  him  good.  But  he  did  not  know  what  to 
ask  for,  what  to  take  for  this  unearthly,  creepy  feeling. 

At  last,  when  he  was  out  under  the  bright  moonlit 
January  sky,  he  stood  at  the  curb,  drinking  in  the  crisp, 
cold  night  air  like  a  man  who  has  just  made  his  escape 
from  a  cavern  filled  with  sewer-gas.  He  began  to  walk, 
he  did  not  know  and  did  not  care  in  what  direction.  But 
he  walked  with  frantic  haste,  as  if  violent  exercise  alone 
would  kill  thought. 

When  the  clock  on  Herald  Square  struck  three,  he 
found  himself  at  the  junction  of  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Thirty- fourth  Street.  Suddenly  he  felt  chilled  to  the 
marrow.  He  hailed  a  taxicab  and  jumped  into  it. 

In  his  own  room  at  last,  without  undressing,  he  threw 
himself  upon  his  couch  bed.  Here,  in  his  own  familiar 


294          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

surroundings,  he  felt  that  he  would  be  able  to  give 
adequate  thought  to  the  unspeakable  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened. As  if  thinking"  it  over  would  mend  matters !  But 
he  did  not  think.  After  intense  nervous  shocks  nervous 
temperaments  experience  a  bodily  fatigue  that  courts 
sleep.  Richard  slept  heavily  until  seven  in  his  clothes. 

He  undressed,  bathed,  and  redressed,  and  while  thus 
occupied  had  ample  time  to  consider  the  situation.  He 
was  utterly  crushed  with  a  sense  of  his  iniquity ;  he  told 
himself  that  he  had  fallen  into  the  bottomless  pit,  and 
that  if  he  had  any  courage  and  manliness  and  decency 
left  in  him,  he  would  go  to  Betty  and  make  a  clean  breast 
of  the  whole  miserable  affair.  On  the  other  hand,  his 
fine  sense  of  courtesy  and  modesty  suggested  that  to 
unburden  himself  by  confession  to  Betty  would  be  to  add 
cowardice  to  guilt.  The  sense  of  sin  would  be  much 
harder  to  bear  if  he  forebore  making  his  confession.  To 
do  without  her  forgiveness,  when,  he  felt  certain  he 
might  have  it  for  the  asking,  at  the  cost,  however,  of  pol- 
luting her  innocence,  that,  he  told  himself,  was  to  be  his 
punishment. 

On  his  way  to  the  dining-room  he  remembered  the 
question  she  had  asked  him  the  night  they  had  heard 
Tannhaeuser:  "Can  you  understand  how  a  man  loving 
one  woman  can  be  the  lover  of  another?"  And  he  had 
answered  "No."  And  he  had  not  understood  and  did 
not  understand,  although  he  was  culpable  of  the  same 
odious  offense. 

Had  he  been  less  modest-minded,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered himself  partially  exonerated  by  the  fact  that  Kitty 
resembled  Betty — for  he  was  sufficiently  unsophisticated 
not  to  suspect  Kitty's  make-up.  But  resemblance  only 
added  another  damning  item  to  his  guilt.  He  had  not 
merely  polluted  himself — he  had  spattered  Betty  with 
mud.  His  self-revilement  knew  no  bounds. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         295 

Thrice  he  turned  away  from  the  dining-room  before 
he  could  muster  sufficient  courage  to  enter.  Finally, 
hearing  that  Mrs.  Presbey  had  come  in  from  the  kitchen, 
he  took  his  courage  in  his  hands  and  walked  into  the 
room.  He  found  he  was  afraid,  horribly  afraid,  of  being 
alone  with  Betty.  He  had  wondered,  while  dressing,  that 
his  features  did  not  bear  some  shameful  mark — his  eyes 
some  sign  of  his  guilt.  He  thought  that  iniquity  such  as 
his,  acting  like  a  toxin,  must  poison  and  distort  the  entire 
visage. 

While  he  pretended  to  eat  his  oatmeal,  he  suffered 
great  suspense  lest  either  Mrs.  Presbey  or  Betty  or  both 
would  ask  him  at  what  time  he  had  come  in.  But  Betty 
chatted  merrily  ab'out  some  funny  incident  she  had  wit- 
nessed in  the  street,  and  Mrs.  Presbey  had  a  laughable 
anecdote  to  relate  of  Nora's  unparalleled  stupidity. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Presbey  said: 

"I  didn't  hear  Richard  come  in  last  night.  Did  you 
hear  him,  Miss  Betty?" 

"No,"  said  Betty.  "One  never  hears  him  when  he 
comes  in  late.  My  Dicky  is  always  considerate." 

"Considerate !"    Richard  grew  crimson. 

Mrs.  Presbey  laughed. 

"Just  look  at  your  Dicky  blushing  because  you  are 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  Well,  Richard,  I  will  say 
this  for  you.  You  are  a  good  boy.  You've  lived  in  my 
house  for  five  years,  and  I  fancy  I  know  you  as  well  as 
anybody  does.  I  don't  believe  you  could  do  a  wrong 
thing." 

Having  thus  eulogized  her  favorite,  Mrs.  Presbey  rose 
and  majestically  sailed  from  the  room  to  superintend 
the  frying  of  Richard's  wheat  cakes,  which,  being  des- 
tined for  Dicky's  stomach,  Nora  was  not  competent  to 
handle.  Betty  and  Richard  were  alone. 

"Isn't  she  a  dear  to  say  all  that  about  you?    Of  course 


296          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

it's  true.  You  are  the  only  and  original  package  in  the 
way  of  masculine  perfection."  Bubbling  over  with 
laughter,  and  masking  her  pride  in  her  Dick  under  the 
cloak  of  slang,  Betty  leaned  toward  Richard.  "You 
haven't  kissed  me,  yet,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Haven't  I?"  Dick  simulated  absent-mindedness. 
Beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  brow.  How  could 
he  kiss  her — his  Betty — spotless  and  pure  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  imagination,  after  the  occurrence  of  the 
previous  night? 

"Dicky,  darling,  what's*  the  matter  with  you  ?  Did 
you  have  an  unpleasant  evening?" 

"Not  so  awfully  pleasant." 

She  brushed  a  recalcitrant  curl  from  his  brow.  He 
shrank  visibly  from  her  touch.  His  perfervid  imagina- 
tion, always  proceeding  by  leaps  and  bounds,  propelled 
him  into  a  vision  of  the  lepers  of  old,  who,  segregated 
in  one  quarter  of  the  town,  were  forced  by  the  inflex- 
ible, religious  law  of  the  day  to  cry  out,  "Unclean,  Un- 
clean," when  a  stranger  passed  them  by  the  wayside  or 
in  the  streets,  lest  he  defile  himself  by  accidentally  brush- 
ing against  them.  If  he,  Richard,  were  to  have  his  due, 
"Unclean,  Unclean,"  would  be  his  cry  of  warning  to 
ward  off  Betty's  caressing  fingers. 

"Poor  dear,  I  won't  bother  with  questions."  And  she 
began  chatting  about  indifferent  subjects,  with  the  evi- 
dent intention  of  deflecting  his  thoughts  into  pleasant 
channels. 

He  contrived  to  see  little  of  her  all  day.  When  even- 
ing came,  instead  of  walking  home  with  her,  he  pre- 
tended to  be  too  busy  to  go  home  for  supper.  Although 
he  was  not  busy,  he  remained  at  the  store  until  eleven, 
creeping  stealthily  to  his  room  when  he  got  home. 

Through  the  night  he  felt  ill.  The  next  day  certain 
symptoms  alarmed  him,  and  leaving  the  office  a  little 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         297 

earlier  than  usual,  he  stopped  at  Dr.  Moran's.  Dr. 
Moran,  after  a  brief  talk,  confirmed  Richard's  worst 
fears. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  he  said  not  unkindly,  "you 
should  have  taken  my  advice.  As  you  are  able  to  afford 
marriage,  you  should  have  married,  instead  of  taking  this 
risk.  If  young  men  would  only  learn  to  keep  clear  of 
such  intrigues  not  from  ethical  or  religious  scruples,  but 
for  physiological  reasons." 

Richard  said  not  a  word.  He  was  stunned  by  the  phy- 
sician's words,  enervated  by  this  horror  which  had 
swooped  down  upon  him,  dazed  by  the  circumstance  that 
the  man  of  medicine  evidently  believed  he  had  committed 
the  offense  with  deliberate  intent.  His  head  seemed  split- 
ting asunder.  He  wanted  to  clear  himself  in  the  physi- 
cian's eyes  of  this  aspect  of  the  guilt.  He  wanted  the 
practitioner,  scribbling  a  prescription  upon  his  pad,  to 
know  that  he  had  not  been  as  vile  as  all  that.  Finally 
he  stammered, 

"It  was  not " 

"Not  what?"  asked  Dr.  Moran,  without  looking  up 
from  the  prescription. 

"Not  deliberate,  on  my  part." 

"Not  deliberate ?"  Dr.  Moran  gazed  at  Rich- 
ard in  amazement  for  a  moment,  then  he  said,  kindly,  "I 
understand.  Unfortunately  nature  makes  no  allowances. 
Professionally  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  wish  all 
young  men  could  be  made  to  realize  that  marriage  is  the 
only  safe  outlet.  Of  course  some  do  realize  it,  and  take 
the  risk  nevertheless.  That's  due  largely  to  the  high 
cost  of  living,  and  not  to  inherent  immorality,  as  some 
folks  would  have  us  believe.  Our  complex  civilization 
makes  it  impossible,  except  for  a  favored  few,  to  marry 
before  thirty  or  thirty-five,  because  it  takes  a  man  so 
much  longer  now-a-days  to  equip  himself  for  the  dis- 


298         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

charge  of  his  professional  or  business  duties.  But  young 
men  are  young  men  now  as  formerly  at  a  much  earlier 
age,  and  nature  unfortunately  is  inconsiderate  enough 
not  to  prolong  the  period  of  physical  adolescence  to 
match  the  prolongation  of  man's  present  educational 
adolescence.  Hence  men  take  the  risk  of  becoming  phys- 
ical pariahs  for  several  years." 

"A  physical  pariah,"  gasped  Richard,  "what  do  you 
mean?" 

The  physician,  having  adroitly  brought  the  conversa- 
tion to  the  point  which  gave  him  the  desired  opening, 
continued : 

"Mr.  Pryce,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  How  you  came 
to  let  yourself  in  for  this  I  do  not  know,  and,  as  I  am 
your  medical  and  not  your  religious  adviser,  it  is  none 
of  my  business.  But  I  can  see  this.  The  phrase  which 
is  frequently  applied  to  women  can  aptly  be  applied  to 
you.  You  have  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning." 

Richard  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

"But  tell  me,  why  didn't  you  marry?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  Dr.  Moran.  The  girl  I  am  engaged  to 
has  a  horror  of  marriage.  In  your  profession,  do  you 
find  that  attitude  unusual?" 

The  physician  became  very  grave. 

"It  is  very  much  more  usual  than  is  generally  believed," 
he  said. 

"And  I  loved  her  so  well,  that,  although  she  was  willing 
to  marry  me,  I  insisted  on  waiting.  I  wanted  her  to 
change,  first." 

"That  spirit  of  consideration  is  unusual."  Dr.  Moran 
looked  at  Richard  curiously.  "Usually  men  care  only 
for  themselves."  He  rose,  and  putting  his  hand  on  Rich- 
ard's shoulder,  said: 

"My  boy,  I  am  really  more  sorry  for  you  than  I  can 
say.  Buck  up.  I'll  pull  you  through  all  right.  But,  of 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         299 

course,  as  a  man  of  honor,  you  will  not  marry  for  three 
years.  You  know,  of  course,  that  it  takes  that  long, 
sometimes  longer,  to  cure  this  disease.  Apparently 
you  will  be  well  in  a  few  months  as  far  as  your  gen- 
eral health  is  concerned.  You  will  be  somewhat  weak- 
ened, that  is  all.  But  the  danger  of  infecting  others  re- 
mains. You  understand  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Richard,  thickly.  His  lips  seemed  glued  to- 
gether. Good  Heavens — what  if  Betty  were  to  declare 
herself  willing  in  good  earnest  to  marry  him  now?  The 
miracle  he  had  hoped  and  wished  and  prayed  for  had 
become  a  thing  to  be  feared.  He  listened  as  in  a  dream 
to  the  physician's  instructions.  Blindly  he  walked  from 
the  office,  and  out  into  the  street.  He  was  trembling  so 
violently  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  He  leaned  against 
a  railing  for  support. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  "My  God,"  and  it  was  not  a  curse 
but  a  prayer  of  a  soul  in  mortal  agony. 

A  matronly,  wholesome-looking  woman  of  about  forty- 
five  stopped,  glanced  at  Richard's  chalky  face  and  asked, 
kindly : 

"Are  you  ill  ?"  She  spoke  with  the  quiet  dignity  which 
a  well-bred  woman  evinces  when  extraordinary  circum- 
stances force  her  to  accost  a  stranger. 

"No — thank  you,  I  am  not  ill." 

The  woman  lingered. 

"I  am  not  ill,"  Richard  repeated.  "I  have  had  a  nerv- 
ous shock,  that  is  all." 

The  woman  walked  away  slowly.  Once  she  turned, 
glanced  back,  and  then  walked  away. 

And  now  one  word  and  one  only  rang  through  the  boy's 
maddened  brain.  "Unclean,  unclean,  unclean."  He  had 
thought  himself  spiritually  polluted.  That  had  been  bad 
enough,  but  to  suffer  spiritual  pollution  carried  with  it 
a  certain  dignity.  But  this !  He  shrank  from  himself  in 


300         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

horror.  His  self-loathing,  self-abasement  and  self-dis- 
gust knew  no  bounds. 

The  thought  of  suicide  came  to  him.  "The  wages  of 
sin  are  Death."  Odd,  how  Bible  words  and  Bible  phrases 
came  bubbling  to  the  top  of  the  cauldron  of  thought.  But 
what  good  would  his  suicide  do  Betty? 

A  sudden  spasm  of  fury  possessed  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  wrong-doing  into  which  he  had  been  trapped- 
was  receiving  a  punishment  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
magnitude.  The  access  of  fury  cleared  his  brain  and  re- 
laxed the  fearful  tension  of  his  nerves.  He  set  his  jaw 
grimly,  pulled  himself  together  vigorously  and  walked 
rapidly  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  His  manliness  had 
reasserted  itself.  He  was  ready,  to  use  his  own  phrase, 
"to  take  his  medicine  like  a  man." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

The  delicate  question,  whether  honor  required  that  he 
tell  Betty  or  keep  his  shame  from  her,  consumed  Rich- 
ard's every  leisure  moment  for  days  to  come.  He  was 
still  in  the  throes  of  his  mental  struggle  when  the  un- 
expected happened. 

''Dick,"  said  Betty  one  evening  after  supper,  when,  as 
usual  since  his  downfall,  he  was  trying  to  get  to  his 
room  unperceived  by  her,  "I  would  like  a  long  talk  with 
you.  Have  you  time  ?" 

"Yes,  Betty." 

"Dicky  dear,"  she  said  nervously,  when  they  were 
seated  side  by  side  on  the  Davenport,  "I  am  getting  the 
habit,  I  am  afraid." 

"What  habit,  Betty,  dear?" 

"Of  proposing  to  you,  Dick?" 

"I  think  I  did  the  proposing  a  good  many  months 
ago." 

"Yes,  proposing  to  be  engaged.  But  I  propose  that  we 
get  married.  Dicky,  darling,  for  selfish  as  well  as  un- 
selfish reasons,  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  don't  want 
you  to  cross-examine  me  again  as  to  this  and  that.  I 
cannot  explain  just  why,  dear,  but  I  want  your  name— 
I  want  to  be  your  wife." 

"Betty!" 

"I  have  the  floor,  Dicky,  so  don't  interrupt  me.  And 
then,  dear,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  going  to  change  fur- 
ther than  I  have  changed.  And,  Dicky,  dear,  if  I  love 
you  well  enough  to  be  willing  to  marry  you  feeling  as  I 

301 


302          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

do,  you  ought  to  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me  in 
spite  of  my  shortcomings,  for  the  love  I  am  giving  you, 
dearest,  is  very  precious  even  if  it  lacks  one  element,  and 
Dicky,  I  am  humble  now.  I  am  no  longer  proud  of 
feeling  as  I  do.  You,  dearest,  will  have  to  help  me  over- 
come my  shortcoming  as  if  it  were  a  deficiency  of 
speech,  or  eyesight,  or  hearing." 

"Betty!" 

"Dicky,  don't  make  me  do  all  the  love-making.  I  am 
through  with  what  I  have  to  say.  It  sounds  rather  thin 
and  meagre,  I  cannot  make  words  chime  like  music  as 
you  can,  but  I  love  you,  Dicky,  I  love  you,  oh  more,  far, 
far  more  than  I  can  say.  And  if  it  were  not  sinful,  I 
would  wish  that  some  misfortune  would  befall  after  we 
are  married,  some  illness — I  hardly  know  what — so  I 
can  prove  to  you  how  I  love  you." 

"Betty,— sweetheart " 

He  sat  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  She  slipped 
from  the  Davenport  and  knelt  down  beside  him.  She 
clasped  her  hands  over  his,  trying  with  gentle  force  to 
pull  them  away  from  his  face. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "Dick,  what  is  the  matter?  Surely, 
dear,  I  have  said  nothing  to  make  you  cry?" 

His  soul  was  in  process  of  upheaval.  He  could  not 
tell  the  naked,  unvarnished  truth  to  this  spotless  flower 
of  womanhood,  this  girl  who  was  so  incredibly  pure. 
How  to  disinfect  words,  how  to  render  them  antiseptic 
so  that  in  telling  her  he  need  not  sully  that  pristine  soul  ? 

"Dick,  what  is  it?" 

"Betty,  at  present  it  will  be  impossible  for  us  to 
marry." 

"What  has  happened?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"Anything  wrong  with  your  position  at  Telfer's, 
Dick?" 

"No,  Betty." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         303 

"What  then  ?" 

"The  truth  is,  I'm  not  quite  well,  Betty.  It  will  be 
some  time  before  I  am  well.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  marry 
you  before  I  am  all  shipshape." 

"Dicky,"  her  voice  was  jubilant,  "I'm  so  sorry,  of 
course,  dear,  but  isn't  this  just  the  opportunity  I  have 
been  anxious  for?  Darling,  it's  a  curious  thing  for  a 
girl  to  beg  her  betrothed  to  marry  her.  And  I  am  on  my 
knees  too!  What  an  affecting  scene,  Dicky!"  Laughter 
tripped  from  her  lips.  "Dicky,  Dicky,  you  cannot  be 
so  very  ill,  or  I  would  be  much  sadder  than  I  am.  But 
you  must  marry  me  at  once,  dearest.  There  will  be  so 
many  little  things  I  can  do  for  you  once  we  are  man 
and  wife." 

He  did  not  reply.  His  ordeal  surpassed  in  cruelty  any- 
thing he  had  imagined  possible. 

"Dick?" 

''No,  Betty,  it  would  not  be  right." 

"But  Dicky,  I  want  it— I  .  .  ."  She  broke  off,  and 
studied  him  attentively.  "Dick,  is  the  trouble  serious? 
What  is  it?  Your  insomnia?" 

She  became  very  grave.  All  the  ripples  of  laughter 
died  from  her  face.  Only  the  light  remained  in  her 
eyes. 

"Dearest,"  she  entreated,  "won't  you  tell  me  what  is 
wrong?  If  it's  insomnia,  there  is  some  ulterior  cause 
for  that,  isn't  there?" 

He  looked  at  her  humbly,  mutely. 

"Dicky,"  she  persisted,  "if  it  is  insomnia,  when  we  are 
married,  I  can  sit  by  your  side  and  sing  you  to  sleep — 
as  you  played  me  to  sleep  the  night  you  nursed  my  bad 
ankle.  Do  you  remember?" 

Did  he  remember! 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  We  will 
have  to  wait  until  I  am  quite  well." 

"What  is  the  real  trouble,  Dicky?" 


804         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  dear." 

"I  see.    Dick,  is  it  really  serious?" 

"No,  darling,  you  must  not  be  alarmed.  It  is  not 
dangerous,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  But  it  is  impossible 
to  marry — just  now." 

She  allowed  the  subject  to  drop.  The  young  girlish 
face  looked  pinched  and  furrowed.  In  her  eyes  was  a 
look  of  troubled  perplexity.  Throwing  her  arms  im- 
petuously about  his  neck,  she  kissed  him  tenderly. 

"Dicky,  I  think  you  are  the  most  unselfish  man  that 
ever  walked  the  earth." 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  hand  in  hand,  cheek  to  cheek. 
It  was  torture  indefinable  for  him  to  sit  with  her  thus, 
but  the  agony  was  very  different  from  the  agony  of 
former  days. 

Most  bitter  of  all  was  the  thought  that  now  after  the 
voice  of  the  heart  had  spoken  so  eloquently  from  Betty's 
lips  as  to  sweep  away  all  the  scruples  he  had  enter- 
tained of  marrying  her  before  the  voice  of  the  flesh 
also  had  spoken,  he  could  not  marry  her  after  all.  That, 
perhaps,  was  the  most  refmedly  cruel  part  of  his  punish- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XX 

On  the  following  Wednesday  afternoon,  Betty  left 
the  office  at  three  as  usual,  and  at  four  Mr.  Telfer  made 
his  final  exit  through  the  surreptitious  side  door.  Rich- 
ard, remembering  that  he  had  forgotten  to  look  up  a  press 
notice  in  one  of  the  musical  gazettes  which  Mr.  Tel- 
fer wanted  mailed  that  night,  went  into  the  small  apart- 
ment serving  as  an  anteroom  to  Mr.  Telfer's  private  of- 
fice to  consult  the  file  rack  containing  the  current 
periodicals. 

While  he  was  bending  over  the  table,  penknife  poised 
to  sweep  down  upon  the  item  in  question  as  soon  as  he 
had  located  it,  the  door  was  pushed  open  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously. Kitty,  sweeping  aside  office  boys  and  clerks  with 
the  authoritative  air  of  the  stage  favorite,  had  achieved 
the  impossible  and  penetrated  into  the  sanctum  of  Mr. 
Telfer's  private  rooms  without  being  announced. 

Richard,  when  he  saw  her,  was  aghast. 

"You!"  he  cried. 

"I."  Without  taking  the  trouble  to  close  the  door, 
which  would  have  necessitated  her  turning  away  from 
Richard,  she  came  forward,  eyes  bent  upon  Richard, 
gliding  over  the  heavy  Wilton  carpet  with  the  serpentine 
grace  of  the  boa-constrictor,  fascination  and  danger  sug- 
gested by  every  movement  of  the  subtle  body.  Upon 
Richard,  suddenly  there  flashed  the  old,  old  simile  of  the 
serpent  and  the  apple  before  the  fall.  He  thought  he 
understood  now  why  the  serpent,  of  all  created  things, 
was  chosen  to  represent  the  obnoxious  part  allotted  it. 

305 


306         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

For  the  second  time  it  struck  him  as  curious  how  Scrip- 
tural metaphors,  and  phrases  and  thoughts  came  harking 
back  to  him  since  his  sin. 

"You  do  not  seem  particularly  pleased  to  see  me." 

His  innate  courtesy  forbade  the  obvious  retort  that 
she  was  quite  right. 

"I  am  surprised  to  see  you." 

"Surprised?  Not  as  greatly  surprised  as  I  was  on 
Thursday  morning,  a  week  ago,  Richard — "  the  glorious, 
wicked  eyes  were  playing  hypnotically  upon  him.  "Don't 
you  think,  dear  sir,  that  taking  French  leave  as  you  did 
was  highly  ungallant,  to  say  the  least?" 

Richard  looked  at  her  coldly. 

"I  think  that  between  you  and  myself  we  need  not 
mince  words.  I  never  wish  to  see  you  again,  Miss  Flor- 
ence." 

His  bluntness  made  her  angry,  piqued  her  vanity,  an- 
noyed and  amazed  her  incredibly. 

"You  are  a  novelty,  certainly,"  she  said.  "I  have 
never  met  anyone  just  like  you  before.  The  first  time, 
practically,  that  we  meet,  you  carry  me  off  my  feet,  and 
then " 

"I  carried  you  off  your  feet?" 

"Well,  didn't  you?"  She  asked  impudently.  She  had 
taken  his  measure  and  correctly  appraised  his  fine 
courtesy.  But  being  evil  herself  she  could  not  compre- 
hend that  repentance  can  follow  moral  delinquency. 

"No,"  said  Richard  very  gravely,  "I  think  it  was  the 
other  way.  I  think  I  was  carried  off  my  feet." 

Kitty  caught  her  breath  with  a  quick  intake.  She 
grew  crimson  with  anger.  She  was  about  to  vent  her 
displeasure,  but  remembered  in  time  that  only  a  complete 
alienation  of  the  betrothed  couple  would  place  her  in 
possession  of  the  Kasi-Nook. 

"You  flatter  me,"  she  said  smoothly.     "You  ascribe 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         307 

the  little  entr'acte  to  my  charms  while  I  ascribe  it  to 
yours.  We  will  not  quarrel  about  it.  Being  a  woman,  I 
will  accept  your  compliment.  So  be  it.  I  am  responsible 
for  what  occurred." 

Richard  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment.  Such 
adroitness  in  fencing,  such  moral  callousness  in  speaking 
lightly,  with  raillery,  of  an  offense  which  loomed  before 
his  vision  as  the  sin  of  sins,  shocked  him  terribly.  He 
made  no  reply. 

Perceiving  that  her  tactics  had  been  at  fault,  Kitty 
continued,  falling  into  a  different  tone : 

"Richard,  why  do  you  treat  me  like  this  ?  Why  do  you 
treat  me  with  such  pretended  indifference?  Surely,  you 
must  have  some  feeling  for  me  ?" 

She  touched  his  arm  lightly  with  her  gloved  hand. 
He  shook  it  off  as  he  would  have  shaken  off  an  obnox- 
ious bug,  an  ant  or  a  spider.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  gesture  as  one  of  contempt. 

Kitty  frowned.  The  task  that  lay  before  her  was  diffi- 
cult. Her  feminine  self-love  and  vanity  formed  an  even 
stronger  incentive  to  persevere  in  hopes  of  ultimate  suc- 
cess, than  the  single  desire  to  possess  Earlcote's  black 
opal.  She  become  tenderly  serious. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  why  you  are  so  angry  with  me? 
Surely,  you  are  not  the  man  to  show  brutal  scorn  to  a 
woman  for  loving  you  too  well — unwisely?" 

Richard  stared  at  her  in  outraged  silence. 

"Richard!" 

The  power  of  speech  came  back  to  him  at  last. 

"Miss  Florence,"  he  said,  "the  situation  is  perfectly 
clear.  Let  us  call  things  by  their  black,  ugly,  common 
names,  and  not  apply  pretty,  delicate,  scented  names  to 
a  very  sordid  and  pitiful  affair.  I  did  not  lead  you 
astray.  And  I  am  ashamed,  more  bitterly  ashamed  of 
the  affair  than  I  can  say.  I  am  engaged  to  the  sweetest 


308         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

and  best  and  truest  girl  in  the  world  and  through  you 
I  must  forego  marriage  with  her  indefinitely." 

In  imagination  Kitty  saw  the  black  opal  suspended  as 
a  pendant  from  her  neck.  How  well  the  bluish  glimmer 
would  go  with  her  hair  and  eyes ! 

She  masked  her  eagerness  under  the  guise  of  solici- 
tude. 

"You  haven't  been  foolish  enough  to  tell  her?" 

"Ultimately  I  will  have  to." 

"Haven't  you  an  uncommonly  sensitive  conscience,  my 
dear  Richard?" 

"I  have  got  to  tell  her.  There  can  be  no  other  way, 
ultimately." 

Something  in  his  voice,  some  quiet  dignity  of  man- 
ner wholly  free  from  cheap  pathos  struck  a  chill  to  her 
heart.  She  did  not  grow  pale.  Outward  protection  ren- 
dered Kitty's  cheeks  immune  to  sudden  and  embarrassing 
changes  of  color.  But  her  face  underwent  a  terrible 
change. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean  that  my  physician  tells  me  I  must  not  marry 
for  at  least  three  years  to  come." 

Kitty  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  blindly  at  the  table 
as  if  to  steady  herself.  Her  lips  moved  without  speak- 
ing. After  a  little  while  she  asked, 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes." 

She  walked  through  the  room  and  suddenly  he  saw  her 
collapse  into  a  chair. 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  gasped.    "I  didn't  know." 

Richard  had  every  reason  to  hate  and  despise  her,  but 
now,  realizing  that  she  was  enduring  the  same  panic  that 
had  swept  through  him  in  Dr.  Moran's  office,  the  chivalry 
toward  women  practiced  by  countless  generations  of  men 
of  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  came  to  the  fore. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         309 

"I  had  no  idea  that  you  did  not  know,"  he  said,  "or  I 
would  not  have  told  you  so  brusquely."  He  went  to  the 
ice-cooler  and  drew  a  glass  of  water. 

"Drink  that,"  he  commanded. 

Natures  like  Kitty's  rally  quickly  from  the  severest 
nervous  shocks.  While  she  was  drinking  the  water  she 
reflected  that  the  alienation  was  really  more  complete 
and  final  than  any  she  had  believed  possible.  The  black 
opal  was  hers.  She  smiled  composedly  as  she  returned 
the  glass  to  Richard. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "Needless  to  say  I  am  sorry." 
And  she  tripped  lightly  from  the  room. 

From  the  gallery,  two-pairs  of  knowing  eyes,  eyes 
made  knowing  by  ears  that  had  heard  the  entire  conver- 
sation through  the  open  door  and  the  encased  staircase, 
looked  at  each  other  and  winked. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

While  Kitty  was  on  the  gallery  the  next  morning, 
checking  up  the  mail  orders,  Miss  Sharpe  said: 

"Do  you  know  Katarina  della  Florenzia,  Miss  Gar- 
side?"  ' 

"No,"  said  Betty. 

"But  you  know  of  her,  of  course?" 

"Of  course." 

"She  was  here  yesterday." 

"Well,"  Betty  remarked,  indifferently,  "a  good  many 
stage  celebrities  come  here,  don't  they?" 

"They  do.    But  they  usually  come  to  buy  music." 

Something  in  Miss  Sharpe's  tone  made  Betty  look  up. 

"And  didn't  Miss  della  Florenzia  come  to  buy  music  ?" 

"She  may  have." 

A  vague  uneasiness  came  over  Betty. 

"Evidently  she  didn't." 

"Well,  whatever  she  came  for,  she  didn't  buy  any 
music.  She  didn't  ask  to  be  shown  any  music.  She 
didn't  speak  to  any  of  the  salesmen." 

Betty  came  over  to  Miss  Sharpe's  desk. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked.  She  had  the  sensa- 
tion of  an  impending  calamity. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Miss  Sharpe,  and  glanced  past 
Betty  toward  Miss  Connor's  desk.  "Oh,  nothing."  In- 
finite malice  were  contained  both  in  glance  and  tone. 

"Certainly  you  wished  me  to  infer  something  or  other 
from  what  you  said  just  now,  Miss  Sharpe."  Betty  felt 
annoyed  and  showed  it.  "I  suppose  I  am  obtuse.  Won't 
you  please  be  plain?" 

310 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         311 

"Plain  about  what?" 

Betty  became  angry.  It  was  a  rare  occurrence  for  that 
gentle  spirit  to  show  downright  anger,  but  Miss  Sharpe, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  through  her  provocative  man- 
ner, had  achieved  the  seemingly  impossible. 

Without  another  word,  Betty  walked  away,  back  to 
the  table  on  which  she  checked  the  work  done  on  the 
gallery. 

Miss  Sharpe's  manner,  even  more  than  her  words,  filled 
Betty  with  haunting  discomfort.  She  suspected  nothing 
definite.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  Miss  Sharpe 
wished  her  to  infer  that  Richard  was  in  any  way  im- 
plicated in  the  vaudeville  actress's  visit.  Richard  and  she 
belonged  to  each  other  so  completely,  that  the  possibility 
of  his  giving  even  a  fleeting  thought  to  any  other  woman 
never  suggested  itself  to  Betty.  Only  a  nature  wholly 
spiritual  can  attain  such  a  state  of  utter  unsuspiciousness. 
Often  she  had  seen  him  chat  and  laugh  and  jest  with 
women  customers,  just  as  she  chatted  and  laughed  and 
jested  with  men  for  whom  she  played  this  or  that  song 
or  dance  or  sonata. 

Miss  Sharpe  had  more  than  once  set  Betty's  nerves 
a-quiver  with  her  irritating  half-spoken,  half-suppressed 
statements,  statements  which  usually  had  some  palpable 
objective;  but  her  remarks  to-day  had  been  as  intangible 
as  moonshine  on  water.  By  four  o'clock  Betty  had  be- 
come so  nervous  not  merely  from  remembering  Miss 
Sharpe's  allusions  but  even  more  from  the  insidious 
glances  which  Miss  Sharpe  cast  above  and  around, 
but  never  at  her,  that  Betty  threw  discretion  to  the  winds. 

"Miss  Sharpe,"  she  said,  "I  really  wish  you  would  do 
me  the  favor  to  explain  what  you  referred  to  this  morn- 
ing." 

"What  are  you  referring  to?"  in  a  tone  of  utter  non- 
comprehension. 


312         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Miss  Florence, — della  Florenzia." 

"Oh!" 

"Well?" 

"What  did  you  wish  me  to  tell  you,  Miss  Garside?" 

"Why  did  she  come  here?" 

Miss  Sharpe  sighed. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  do  right  in  telling  you." 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  I  really  do  not  know  why  you 
tried  to  arouse  my  curiosity." 

"Well,  you  see,  in  a  way  I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to  speak 
out." 

"Your  duty?" 

"Don't  you  think,  Miss  Garside,  one  decent  girl  owes 
another  decent  girl  the  truth  in  certain  matters?" 

"I  suppose  so.  What  in  all  the  world  has  that  to  do 
with  Miss  Florence?" 

"Miss  Florence  came  to  see  Mr.  Pryce." 

Betty  swallowed  hard  to  keep  in  check  the  tidal  wave 
of  rage  that  rose  within  her. 

"What  of  it?"  she  asked.  "Mr.  Pryce,  through  his 
connection  with  the  Musical  Progress  League,  may  have 
business  of  a  private  nature  with  her." 

"Her  business  with  him  was  of  a  private  nature,  in- 
deed," said  Miss  Sharpe,  dryly. 

Betty's  heart  fluttered  wildly. 

"You  will  have  to  speak  plainly  now,  Miss  Sharpe." 

"Well,  Wednesday  a  week  ago,  Mr.  Pryce  was  asked 
to  go  to  Miss  Florence's  hotel  with  music  she  wished  him 
to  play  with  her." 

"Nothing  unusual  in  that,  is  there?" 

"No." 

Again  the  tone  which  belied  the  words,  the  tone  which 
harassed  and  tortured  nerves  sensitive  to  masked  hos- 
tility. Betty  looked  searchingly  at  Miss  Sharpe,  who 
continued : 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         313 

"Something  unusual  happened  at  her  hotel." 

"What  grounds  have  you  for  saying  so?" 

"From  what  she  said  to  Mr.  Pryce." 

"And  pray,  how  do  you  know  what  she  said  to  Mr. 
Pryce?" 

Miss  Sharpe  jabbed  her  pencil  in  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Telfer's  room. 

"Our  speaking-tube,"  she  said,  "and  they  omitted  to 
close  the  door." 

Betty  could  not  misunderstand  the  allusion  this  time. 

"I  really  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  listened  long 
enough." 

"I  suppose  you  are  afraid  to  hear  the  end  ?" 

"Afraid?  Hardly.  Perhaps  you  had  better  say  all 
you  have  to  say,  after  all." 

"Well,  from  what  they  said  to  each  other,  Mr.  Pryce's 
visit  to  her  the  other  evening — it's  difficult  to  tell,  you 
know." 

"What  you  hint  at  is  impossible.  Mr.  Pryce  is  not 
that  sort  of  a  man." 

"Well,  it's  so,  nevertheless.    There  are  consequences." 

"Consequences  ?" 

Betty  grew  white  to  the  lips.  "Consequences?"  She 
could  hardly  speak,  so  shaken  was  she.  "Miss  Sharpe, 
you  don't  mean " 

"Not  for  her,  if  that  is  what  you  thought.    For  him." 

To  Betty,  in  her  divine  innocence,  this  came  as  an 
anti-climax.  The  suspicion  which  she  had  harbored  col- 
lapsed like  a  balloon  pricked  with  a  pin.  She  laughed. 

"Miss  Sharpe,"  she  asked,  "aren't  you  talking  non- 
sense ?" 

"Well,  I  heard  what  I  heard."  Realizing  Betty's  un- 
believable ignorance,  Miss  Sharpe  became  frightened. 
She  had  meant  to  make  Betty  temporarily  miserable,  but 
her  malice  was  not  great  enough  to  make  her  desire  to 


314         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

see  Betty  plunged  in  an  abyss  of  misery.  She  anticipated 
an  unpleasant  five  minutes.  It  was  impossible,  of  course, 
to  beat  a  retreat.  Betty  was  in  total  ignorance  of  the 
terrible  disease  which  stalks  in  the  trail  of  forbidden 
pleasure,  and  Miss  Sharpe  was  forced  to  elucidate  and 
explain  a  good  deal  more  than  she  found  agreeable.  She 
was  badly  frightened  by  the  deathlike  pallor  that  spread 
over  Betty's  features. 

Miss  Sharpe's  communication  had  a  strange  effect  upon 
Betty.  A  terrible  hatred  rose  in  Betty's  heart,  not  for 
Richard,  nor  for  Kitty — but  for  Miss  Sharpe.  She  kept 
telling  herself  over  and  over  again  that  it  was  all  a  lie, 
that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  whole  story.  But  one 
fact  of  colossal  importance  stared  her  in  the  face  and 
argued  in  favor  of  Miss  Sharpe's  having  spoken  the 
truth.  Richard's  story  of  a  mysterious  disease  dove- 
tailed perfectly  with  Miss  Sharpe's  tale. 

At  four  o'clock  she  told  one  of  the  clerks  that  she  was 
ill  and  was  going  home.  The  rule  of  the  office  required 
that  Richard,  who  was  in  charge,  be  consulted  as  to  the 
curtailing  of  hours  for  any  reason  whatsoever,  but  Betty 
found  it  impossible  to  go  to  him.  The  salesman  to  whom 
she  gave  the  message,  frightened  by  her  white  face,  and 
knowing  of  her  engagement  to  Richard,  ran  pell-mell  into 
Richard's  room  and  hurled  the  information  at  him  that 
"Miss  Garside  is  awfully  sick  and  has  gone  home." 

"When?" 

"This  minute."  Richard  picked  up  hat  and  coat,  and 
rushed  from  the  store  without  waiting  to  put  on  his  over- 
coat. He  struggled  into  it  as  he  ran  after  Betty,  who  was 
half  a  block  away  by  this  time.  He  was  at  her  side  in 
less  than  a  minute. 

"Betty,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Dick!" 

"Betty !"    He  put  his  arm  under  hers  to  support  her. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         315' 

"Let  me  take  yours  instead,  Dicky." 

"Darling,  what  is  it?    Headache?    Nausea?" 

"Wait  till  we  get  home." 

She  clung  to  his  arm  desperately.  "Dicky,  oh  Dicky," 
she  said  once  or  twice.  Only  her  inherent  breeding  kept 
her  from  collapsing  on  the  street  and  giving  vent  to  the 
myriad  feelings  which  oppressed  her. 

Finally,  when  they  got  home,  he  followed  her  into  her 
room.  Without  speaking,  even  before  she  had  taken  off 
her  hat,  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  crying  bitterly. 

A  definite  fear  came  over  him.  He  soothed  her  as  best 
he  could,  led  her  to  a  chair,  contrived  to  get  her  hat  off, 
doing  it  very  clumsily,  and  then  asked, 

"Now,  Betty,  you  must  tell  me  what  is  wrong." 

"Dick,  someone  has  been  saying  such  horrid  things 
about  you." 

"About  me?" 

"And  I  was  foolish  and  wicked  enough  to  believe  them. 
Dicky,  tell  me  they  are  not  true." 

"I'll  have  to  know  first  what  they  are,  won't  I  ?" 

"About  you  and  Miss  Florence?" 

At  the  moment  he  thought  only  of  her.  His  suffering 
was  purely  vicarious.  She  was  half  prepared  to  have 
him  confirm  the  story,  he  could  see  that,  but  he  wanted 
to  prepare  her  still  further. 

"What  made  you  believe  the  story?" 

"Your  postponing  our  marriage." 

He  understood  in  a  flash  that  the  conversation  be- 
tween himself  and  Kitty  had  been  overheard. 

"If  I  did  not  tell  you  the  entire  truth  the  other  evening, 
Betty,  it  was  for  your  sake,  rather  than  for  mine.  Ulti- 
mately I  expected  to  tell  you.  But  I  could  not  tell  you 
just  now." 

"Then  it  is  true?" 

"Yes,  Betty." 


816         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

He  offered  no  excuses  in  extenuation ;  in  a  little  while 
she  said: 

"You  shouldn't  have  lied  to  me  the  other  evening. 
You  should  have  told  me  the  truth  then." 

"I  couldn't;  Betty,  don't  you  understand,  I  was 
ashamed  to  speak  to  you  about  it?" 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  She  had  stopped 
crying,  even  her  sobbing  had  ceased.  She  leaned  her 
throbbing  forehead  against  the  cold  window  pane  and 
closed  her  eyes.  All  her  little  world  seemed  to  crumble 
away,  just  to  crumble  until  there  was  nothing  left — no 
ideals,  no  love — no  Dicky.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
felt  the  day  he  had  allowed  her  to  realize  that  mar- 
riage to  him  would  mean  marriage — no  less.  She  had 
quickly  readjusted  herself  to  the  facts,  shocking  though 
they  seemed  to  her.  She  now  asked  herself  whether  she 
could  possibly  readjust  herself  to  this  fact? 

She  came  back  to  where  he  was  sitting,  his  arm  rest- 
ing on  the  table.  He  was  playing  with  a  paper  knife  in 
the  most  commonplace,  everyday  manner,  as  if  nothing 
of  any  moment  had  occurred.  Richard  had  lived  through 
this  scene  so  frequently  in  imagination  that,  like  all 
highly  strung  natures,  his  fancy  had  exhausted  his  ca- 
pacity for  suffering,  had,  in  fact,  exhausted  every  pos- 
sibility, every  phase  of  what  might  happen.  What  act- 
ually was  happening  was  flat  and  stale  compared  with 
what  he  had  been  through  in  imagination.  He  did  not 
wholly  realize  that  Betty  actually  knew.  He  realized 
vividly  that  he  was  in  a  warm  room  after  a  long,  windy, 
distressing  walk,  and  that  the  paper  knife  he  held  in  his 
hand  was  remarkably  flexible  for  a  steel  cutter,  and  that 
the  hatpin  stuck  out  of  Betty's  hat  at  a  ridiculous  angle, 
because  he  had  been  afraid  to  push  it  far  into  the  dainty, 
lacy  fabric.  Also  he  realized  keenly  that  Betty  was 
calling  him  Richard,  not  Dicky.  That  variation  in  no- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         317 

menclature  appeared  to  him  ridiculous.  It  did  not  seem 
like  Betty  to  emphasize  her  displeasure  by  such  trivial 
methods. 

"Richard,  I  am  going  to  move  away  from  here." 

He  seemed  to  awaken  from  a  dream. 

"No,  you're  not.  I've  thought  of  that.  I  am  going 
to  move.  Of  course  you  cannot  remain  under  the  same 
roof  with  me  now  that  everybody  knows — but  you  have 
got  to  stay  here.  I  want  to  know  you  are  well  taken 
care  of  by  Mrs.  Presbey." 

They  plunged  into  vigorous  discussion.  It  was  rather 
ridiculous,  this  chaffering  about  a  side  issue  at  such  a 
dynamic  moment,  but  it  was  characteristic  of  both  and 
typical  of  their  love  for  each  other.  Something  serious 
had  happened  to  their  love ;  it  was  frightfully  jarred  and 
shocked  and  hammered  out  of  all  semblance  to  itself. 
But  it  was  not  broken.  It  was  a  ball  of  steel  that  had 
been  flattened  by  the  impact  of  a  terrific  blow — not  a 
fragile  vase  that  had  been  cracked  and  flawed  by 
a  fall. 

"And  I  am  going  to  leave  Telfer's,  Richard." 

"Nonsense.  I  promise  not  to  speak  to  you  at  all,  ex- 
cept when  absolutely  necessary.  If  you  wish,  I'll  see 
that  you  are  transferred  to  the  new  branch  at  Forty- 
second  Street.  But  I  won't  have  you  throw  away  a 
good  position  because  I  have  been  a  skunk.  Promise  me 
—Betty!" 

"I  must,  Richard." 

He  became  vibrantly  excited.  "Betty!"  He  stormed 
up  and  down  the  room.  "Betty!"  the  eloquent  fingers 
were  blazing  a  trail  through  the  thick  crop  of  hair. 
"Look  here,  you're  not  going  to  chuck  the  job  because  I 
got  it  for  you,  are  you?  You  don't  despise  me  quite  as 
much  as  that,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is  that  yet,  perhaps  it  is,  partially^ 


818         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

I  had  not  thought  of  it.  I  just  cannot  bear  to  see  you. 
I  want  to  get  away — away  from  you — entirely." 

"You're  not  going  to  throw  me  over  for  good?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

"Of  course  I  fully  realize  that  for  the  time  being,  for 
some  time  to  come  you  wouldn't  want  to  see  anything 
of  me — but  I  hoped,  I  did  sincerely  hope  that  you  would 
not  break  with  me  entirely.  You're  not  going  to,  are 
you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Betty.  "I  don't  know  where  I  am 
at.  I'm,  oh  Dicky,  how  could  you,  how  could  you?"  she 
cried  in  a  sudden  spasm  of  moral  revulsion. 

"That's  what  I've  been  asking  myself  all  the  time, 
Betty,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  partially  exonerate 
himself  by  telling  Betty  how  craftily  he  had  been  tempted. 
But  his  chivalry  toward  both  women  forbade  his  doing  so. 
He  could  not  denounce  the  woman  who  had  led  him  into 
disgrace,  nor  could  he  insult  Betty  by  telling  her  of  that 
woman's  fancied  resemblance  to  herself. 

"Betty,  do  you  hate  me?" 

"Nothing  you  could  do  could  make  me  hate  you,"  she 
said  with  noble  simplicity. 

"Then  why  not  promise  that  you  will  forgive  me  ulti- 
mately— a  long  time  hence — five  years  hence,  let  us  say  ?" 

"I  cannot  promise  that,  if  you  mean  marriage  by  for- 
giveness," she  said.  "Whatever  I  decide  upon  ultimately 
in  that  respect  would  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
my  feelings  for  you.  Those  nothing  can  change.  But 
I  must  make  my  decision  independently  of  my  sentiments 
for  you.  You  have  no  right  to  ask  anything  of  me  at 
this  moment — no  right  whatever." 

He  went  to  the  door,  flung  himself  into  his  overcoat, 
feeling  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  his  masculine 
bigness  and  strength  was  really  an  offense,  a  horrible 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         319 

offense  of  some  sort — feeling,  too,  oddly  enough,  a  lit- 
tle resentful.  He  stood  at  the  door,  stroking  his  hat.  It 
was  horribly  unjust,  he  told  himself,  that  he  could  not 
plead  the  circumstances  which  would  have  helped  his 
defense.  How  utterly  Betty  would  ultimately  condemn 
him,  he  could  not  guess.  He  knew  her  slow  manner  of 
arriving  at  conclusions.  She  required  time  for  even  little 
matters — how  much  more  for  such  a  vital  matter  as  this  ? 
It  might  take  her  months,  a  year,  before  she  arrived  at  a 
satisfactory  conclusion,  and  all  that  time  he  would  be 
enduring  the  pangs  of  remorse  and  suspense. 

"Richard!" 

"Yes,  Betty?" 

"It  is  only  fair  to  tell  you  that  it  is  going  to  make  a 
big  difference  in  one  particular.  I  feel  now  that  I  was 
right  in  my  attitude — in  my  belief  that  no  chaste-minded 
woman  can  feel  anything  but  affection." 

"Betty!" 

"I  mean  it.  If  you,  who  are  so  good  and  noble,  can 
sink  to  such  a  depth  through  that  feeling,  then  that  feel- 
ing is  what  I  always  considered  it,  contemptible." 

The  thought  carried  her  high  and  dry  above  the  hu- 
manizing influences  which  had  been  refashioning  and  re- 
modeling her  soul,  carried  her  back  to  her  original  po- 
sition. Hereafter  she  would  wrap  herself  in  proud  and 
suspicious  contempt  for  men  and  women  who  did  not 
concur  with  her  views.  She  vowed  her  soul  to  eternal 
virginity. 

"But  Betty,  darling — "  he  was  in  despair,  and  so  ex- 
cited that  he  could  hardly  talk. 

"I'll  never  change  now.  Nothing  you  can  say  can 
alter  me  after  this.  If  you  prefer  for  this  reason  to 
break  the  engagement  at  once  very  well.  If  not,  I  must 
have  time  to  think  matters  over.  I  may  break  it  later 
on." 


820         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"I  certainly  do  not  wish  to  break  it,"  Richard  cried. 
"And  if  you  break  it  I  will  go  and  kill  myself.  You  are 
the  only  woman  I  ever  loved  and  .  .  ." 

"Evidently  I  am  not." 

"Betty,  Betty,  how  can  you  be  so  cold?" 

"Cold?  I  am  glad  I  am  cold,"  she  said.  "I  glory  in 
being  cold." 

His  excitement  became  more  intense.  He  entreated, 
implored,  begged  her  he  knew  not  what.  The  feminine 
part  of  his  nature  had  never  been  so  completely  in  the 
ascendant.  He  babbled  as  incoherently,  and  to  as  little 
purpose  as  a  hysterical  woman.  His  condition  verged 
on  hysteria.  The  thought  that  she  would  probably  reject 
him  made  him  conduct  himself  like  a  madman. 

"Oh,  why  did  this  happen  to  me !"  he  cried. 

"Happen  to  you?  You  speak  as  if  you  had  met  with 

a  disaster — when,  in  truth "  she  hesitated,  blushed 

and  stopped. 

"In  truth  what?"  he  prompted. 

"In  truth  it  was  the  result  of  not  suppressing  that  part 
of  your  nature.  I  am  willing,  on  one  condition,  to  prom- 
ise you  now  that  I  will  ultimately  marry  you." 

"What  is  the  condition?" 

"That  we  will  live  together  as  brother  and  sister." 

"Impossible,  Betty!" 

"There  are  many  persons  now-a-days,  Dick,  who  be- 
lieve in  marriage  for  the  sake  of  children  only.  I  under- 
stand, of  course,  in  that  case,  that  it  cannot  be  avoided — 
and  I  will  allow  motherhood, — if  and  whenever  you  may 
think  it  desirable  to  make  a  legitimate  exception  to  the 
rule." 

"Impossible,"  he  cried  again.  "Impossible.  I  cannot 
argue  with  you  on  this  point  because  I  have  never  thought 
much  about  it.  I  have  only  felt  that,  well — that  mar- 
riage is  marriage." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         821 

"And  where  did  your  feelings  lead  you  to?"  she  asked 
with  scathing  scorn. 

"How  terribly  hard  a  good  woman  can  be,"  he  said. 

"Then,  Dick — women  sometimes  fall  ill  after  marriage. 
How  do  I  know  that  if  I  were  ill  you  would  not  feel  it 
incumbent  on  you  to  'round  out  your  love'  elsewhere  ?  As 
you  have  done  now." 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  he  cried,  his  nervous  hands 
interlacing  and  clenching  themselves  into  knots, — "for 
the  love  of  mercy,  do  you  think  I  did  this  thing  delib- 
erately?" 

"I  beg  of  you,  Richard,  I  desire  to  hear  no  details." 

"I  haven't  given  you  any,  have  I?"  he  retorted  pas- 
sionately. "If  we  were  married,  and  you  were  to  fall 
ill,  we  would  still  be  one  flesh,  wouldn't  we?  Nothing 
could  change  that  fact,  or  alienate  us." 

"Yet,  if  I  trusted  you,  undeliberately,  you  might  repeat 
the  offense  you  have  just  committed." 

"If  I  did,"  he  said,  his  self-respect  getting  the  upper 
hand  of  his  excruciating  nervousness,  "I  would  have  the 
manliness  to  come  to  you  and  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"Why  didn't  you  have  the  manliness  to  come  and  do 
that  now?" 

"I  refrained  from  telling  you  out  of  modesty,  and  re- 
spect for  the  woman,  who  is  not  yet  my  wife,"  he  replied. 

"Ah,  you  admit  it,  then  ?  You  will  feel  less  respect  for 
me  after  we  are  married?" 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  indignantly.  "Only — after  mar- 
riage, it  would  be  natural  for  me  to  feel  I  could  speak 
to  you  of  anything." 

He  dashed  about  the  room  wildly,  upsetting  a  chair 
as  he  strode  from  corner  to  corner,  his  fingers  at  work 
all  the  time  with  each  other,  with  his  hair,  his  brow.  He 
had  come  to  the  end  of  the  tether.  He  could  endure  no 
more.  His  horror  of  losing  her  was  eclipsed  for  the 


822         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

moment  by  the  more  immediate  horror  of  breaking  into 
tears.  He  seemed  to  feel  tears  trickling  down  from  brain 
to  eyes  and  scalp,  and  running  up  from  throat  and  ears 
and  nose.  If  they  came  there  would  be  a  flood  of  them. 
He  bent  every  effort  of  his  unnerved  and  tortured  will 
to  preserve  at  least  an  outward  show  of  dignity. 

Finally  he  come  back  to  her. 

"Betty,  before  I  go,  will  you  let  me  kiss  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Just  once — once  more." 

"No,  Richard,  I  cannot,  I  really  cannot."  She  shrank 
from  his  eyes  and  from  his  outstretched  hands.  "You 
should  not  expect  it,"  she  said.  "You  cannot  imagine 
how  utterly  loathsome  it  all  seems  to  me." 

"Loathsome !"  He  himself  had  used  the  word  in  his 
tumultuous  self -communing  after  he  had  seen  Dr.  Moran. 
Loathsome !  If  he,  the  delinquent,  a  man,  had  felt  it  to 
be  that,  the  word  probably  expressed  his  spotless  Betty's 
sentiments  only  feebly.  He  stood  irresolutely  twirling  his 
hat.  He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  in  his  own  behalf. 
After  all,  he  held  himself  just  as  blamable  as  she.  And 
yet  he  knew  how  he  had  been  tempted,  how  the  forbidden 
fruit  had  been  dangled  before  his  eyes  and  made  to  ap- 
pear almost  like  unforbidden  fruit.  He  knew  that  and 
she  didn't.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

He  wanted  to  ask  her  to  at  least  call  him  "Dick"  be- 
fore he  left  her  room.  But  he  could  not  frame  the 
request.  At  last  he  went  from  the  room  without  having 
spoken  again. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

After  many  half  hours  of  arguing,  Betty  promised  to 
remain  at  Mrs.  Presbey's,  and  not  to  leave  Telfer's 
unless  a  suitable  position  was  offered  elsewhere.  Un- 
expectedly, the  suitable  position  offered  within  a  week 
with  a  musical  house  that  made  a  specialty  of  "renting 
out"  accompanists  to  singers  for  practice  work.  As 
Richard  had  left  Mrs.  Presbey's  within  ten  days  after 
his  confession,  it  happened  that  by  the  end  of  March 
Richard  and  Betty  saw  as  little  of  each  other  as  if  she 
had  been  in  the  Klondike  and  he  in  Timbuctoo. 

More  than  once  before  he  left  Mrs.  Presbey's,  Betty 
had  been  tempted  to  call  out,  "What  does  it  matter,  Rich- 
ard, remain  here."  But  she  told  herself  that  she  owed  it 
to  morality  in  the  abstract  to  maintain  the  stand  she  had 
taken.  Pure  minded  though  she  was,  she  could  not 
help  trying  to  realize  how  the  unspeakable  thing  had  oc- 
curred. That  a  woman  could  tempt  a  man  was  a  pos- 
sibility which  did  not  even  remotely  occur  to  her.  Her 
youth,  her  sex,  her  upbringing,  all  made  her  regard  the 
man  as  the  logical  wrong-doer,  the  woman  as  the 
wronged.  The  great  mystery  for  her,  then,  was  the 
fact  that  Dicky,  so  high-minded,  so  true  a  gentleman; 
Dicky,  so  delicately  fibred  that  he  refused  to  marry  her 
while  the  thought  of  yielding  herself  to  him  as  his  wife 
remained  in  the  least  obnoxious  to  her,  should  have  com- 
mitted an  offense  which  was  abominable  even  when 
judged  by  the  canons  of  those  men  and  women  who  saw 
in  matrimony  not  merely  a  justifiable  institution  or  a 

323 


324         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

necessary  evil,  but  something  sacred  and  holy  and  pure. 
Bad  enough  for  a  man — how  much  lower  for  a  woman  ? 
Thus  Betty  reasoned.  The  woman  then  was  detestable, 
and  Betty  detested  her  fervently,  without  having  formed 
any  adequate  notion  of  the  part  she  had  played. 

In  April  she  met  Louise  Reynolds  on  the  street  one 
day.  Louise's  gestures  of  greeting  were  always  those 
of  an  affectionate  puppy,  and  she  literally  fell  on  Betty's 
neck  and  embraced  her.  Nothing  would  do  but  Betty 
must  spend  the  week-end  with  them.  The  arrangement 
was  that  the  two  girls  in  the  afternoon  were  to  go  and 
see  "The  Sun-God,"  which,  after  a  successful  canine 
tour,  had  finally  made  its  way  to  New  York.  They  were 
to  go  "Dutch  treat"  and  Betty  was  to  accompany  Louise 
to  Brooklyn  in  the  evening  and  stay  until  Monday  morn- 
ing. Louise,  having  more  time  than  Betty,  bought  the 
tickets,  which,  of  course,  had  to  be  procured  in  advance, 
but  when  Betty,  between  acts,  offered  to  refund  the 
money,  Louise,  with  her  flippant  little  giggle,  demurred. 

"Oh,  Dad  said  I  was  to  treat.  He  gave  me  a  five- 
spot.  We'll  each  get  ourselves  an  orchid  after  the  the- 
atre, and  a  big  box  of  Huyler's  to  eat  to-morrow.  Or  do 
you  prefer  Repetti's?" 

Betty,  always  desperately  independent,  felt  uncom- 
fortable, but  had  to  let  it  go  at  that. 

The  Reynolds  were  extremely  hospitable.  They  made 
Betty  welcome  and  exacted  her  promise  to  spend  Sunday 
with  them  frequently. 

"Liberty  Hall,"  said  fat  Mr.  Reynolds,  with  a  spacious 
gesture  of  the  hand  indicating  the  house  and  all  it  con- 
tained. "You  must  feel  at  liberty  to  come  and  go  as  you 
please."  He  patted  Betty's  little  white  hand  between  his 
enormous,  red,  calloused  paws.  Mrs.  Reynolds  unbent 
from  her  usual  majesty  of  manner  so  far  as  to  kiss 
Betty  on  both  cheeks.  Betty  wondered  why  these  folks, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         825 

•— ••— — ^— — ^-^-^— ^— ^^-^— ^— ^— — — — — — ^^^— ^^— «^— — — — ^— ^— »^— ^— ^^— 

on  whom 'she  had  no  claim  whatever,  should  be  so  kind 
to  her.  Mrs.  Reynolds  remembered  that  Betty  was  par- 
ticularly fond  of  chocolate  pudding,  with  whipped 
cream,  and  had  that  for  dessert.  Mr.  Reynolds  recol- 
lected that  Betty  liked  to  read  the  Evening  Post  on  Sat- 
urday afternoon,  and  the  Tribune  on  Sunday,  and 
had  ordered  both  papers  for  her  from  his  newsdealer. 
Louise  gave  her  a  handsome,  hand  embroidered  collar 
similar  to  one  she  herself  owned,  which  Betty  had  ad- 
mired the  day  they  met  on  the  street.  Even  Louise's 
brother,  a  wild  coltish-mannered  boy  of  twelve,  bought 
her  a  bag  of  freshly  roasted  peanuts  which  he  had  bought 
for  a  nickel  previously  obtained  from  his  father  by  ca- 
jolery. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  this  big-hearted  hospitality,  this  more 
than  mere  friendliness  and  courtesy,  Betty  did  not  really 
enjoy  her  stay  at  the  Reynolds'.  Mr.  Reynolds'  sole  ob- 
ject in  life,  it  seemed  to  her  on  the  occasion  of  her  first 
visit,  was  to  make  money  for  his  family,  and  the  fam- 
ily's sole  object,  apparently,  was  to  spend  it.  Louise's 
career  centered  in  attendance  at  parties,  theatres,  dances, 
and  the  attention  bestowed  upon  her  by  her  dancers,  and 
her  impartiality  toward  young  men,  who  were  young  and 
had  money  to  take  her  about,  struck  Betty  as  being  in 
excessively  bad  taste.  She  hated  herself  for  criticizing 
Louise,  usually  so  sweet  and  kind  to  her,  but  she  could 
not  suppress  a  creeping  sense  of  horror  upon  hearing 
Louise  discuss  the  comparative  advantages  accruing  to 
marriage  with  no  less  than  three  different  young  men. 

Betty  thought  of  her  own  supreme  love  for  Richard, 
for  she  had  had  abundant  time  by  then  to  realize  that 
her  devotion  for  him  had  in  no  way  been  impaired  by 
the  occurrence  which  had  resulted  in  their  temporary 
separation;  and  she  wondered  at  Louise's  lack  of  sensi- 
bility. 


326         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Betty  had  dreaded  that  the  Reynolds  might  question 
her  about  Richard  Pryce  and  her  reason  for  leaving  Tel- 
fer's.  But  they  accepted  the  fact  that  she  was  in  a  dif- 
ferent position  from  the  one  to  which  she  had  gone  on 
leaving  Penascapet,  without  comment,  and  Betty  con- 
strued as  tact  what  in  reality  was  indifference.  The 
Reynolds  would  do  for  her  what  they  could ;  they  gave 
her  a  rousing  good  time,  according  to  their  lights,  which, 
after  all,  as  Betty  was  to  discover  subsequently,  was  not 
so  very  different  from  her  own ;  they  would  have  helped 
her  financially  or  provided  her  with  raiment  and  food  and 
'shelter  if  she  had  been  in  need;  but  their  good-will  was 
expended  in  active  benevolence,  which,  from  kind-heart- 
edness, not  from  delicacy,  they  did  not  set  down  as  an 
eleemosynary  sentiment.  But  Louise's  friendship  lacked 
that  ultimate  spiritual  germ  which  makes  the  doings  and 
thoughts  and  life  of  those  we  love  as  interesting  when 
away  from  us,  if  not  more  so,  as  when  with  us. 

Nevertheless,  Betty  spent  another  week  end,  and  an- 
other, in  the  bosom  of  the  Reynolds  family.  It  was  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  now  they  had  rediscovered  Betty,  to  evade 
their  kindness  without  showing  incivility  in  return  for 
big-hearted  friendliness. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  at  the  suggestion  of  her 
father,  who  had  placed  the  automobile  at  the  girls'  dis- 
posal, Louise  took  Betty  through  Prospect  Park  and  then 
to  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Art  to  look  at  Tissot's  paint- 
ings illustrating  the  life  of  Christ. 

"Now  those  paintings  are  really  worth  seeing,"  said 
Mr.  Reynolds,  emphasizing  his  words  by  smacking  his 
lips.  "I  don't  take  any  stock  in  pictoors  as  a  rule.  But 
these  pictoors, — well,  they  are  worth  seeing,  that's  all." 

"I've  seen  them  twice,"  Louise  objected. 

"It  won't  hurt  you  to  see  them  a  third  time,"  her  father 
retorted.  "Miss  Garside,  I  imagine,  will  enjoy  them." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         327 

This  was  a  new  side  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  and  Betty  won- 
dered more  than  once  that  afternoon  at  the  glimpse  of 
the  soul  of  Louise's  father  thus  unexpectedly  afforded 
her.  Somehow  she  had  never  suspected  that  he  might 
care  for  anything  but  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs  and 
his  family's  material  comfort. 

To  see  beautiful  pictures  always  aroused  in  Betty  the 
same  mood  of  spiritual  exaltation  as  to  hear  good  music. 
And  these  five  hundred  odd  paintings  by  Tissot,  the  con- 
ception and  execution  of  which  forms  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  episodes  in  the  history  of  art,  raised  her 
exaltation  to  a  pitch  which  it  heretofore  had  never  as- 
cended, and  as  she  passed  from  picture  to  picture,  famil- 
iarizing herself  with  the  history  of  their  genesis,  there 
descended  upon  her  one  of  those  precious  moods  which 
deify  the  Spirit,  which  seem  to  disintegrate  and  remove 
what  is  gross  and  unworthy  in  the  human  heart,  which 
apparently  vaporizes  the  body,  freeing  the  soul  as  nearly 
as  possible  from  its  earthly  trammels. 

Filled  with  a  burning  wish  to  portray  pictorially  the 
life  of  the  Saviour,  Tissot  disdained  to  employ  as  models 
such  human  material  as  was  obtainable  from  the  Ghetto 
of  France.  No  medieval  monk,  mewed  in  a  perpetual 
monastery  cell,  gifted  with  talent  for  pen  or  brush  and 
dedicating  the  better  part  of  his  life  to  the  illumination  of 
some  missal,  a  book  of  hours  or  a  gospel,  and  working 
upon  the  same  in  the  vigils  of  the  night  by  the  dim  light 
of  rush  candles  brought  a  finer  religious  fervor,  a  more 
keen  ecstatic  frenzy,  or  as  much  penetrating  spiritual  in- 
sight to  the  exigencies  of  his  work  than  did  Tissot  to 
his.  A  Frenchman  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  an  artist 
of  that  epoch  and  race  which  had  the  hardihood  to  dis- 
countenance, plunder  and  humiliate  the  Church  which 
had  been  a  leading  beneficent  factor  in  the  upbuilding 
of  the  Gallic  nation,  he  possessed  the  genius  and  the  re- 


328         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ligious  fortitude  in  the  face  of  all  disturbing  and  dis- 
tracting modern  influences,  to  prepare  himself  for  his 
work  with  a  humility  and  patience  and  a  far-reaching 
comprehension  of  detail  which  may  have  been  equalled 
in  the  world  of  science,  but  which  is  matchless  in  the 
world  of  art.  For  over  a  decade  he  made  his  home  in 
ihe  Holy  Land,  believing  that  the  Jewish  types  seen  there 
retained  in  greater  purity,  with  only  a  trifling  accretion 
of  spurious  modern  traits,  the  habits,  customs,  manners 
and  appearance  of  the  Hebrews  who  flourished  in  Pales- 
tine when  Jesus  lived.  He  permeated  himself  with  the 
spirit  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament.  He  studied  the 
atmospheric  conditions  of  Palestine  at  morning,  noon 
and  dusk,  and  at  night  as  well;  he  visited  innumerable 
abodes,  hovels  as  well  as  the  homes  of  prosperous  mer- 
chants, to  glean  what  hints  he  might  that  would  prove  of 
service  in  the  unparalleled  task  he  had  set  himself. 

The  monumental  work  he  achieved  is  the  apotheosis  of 
patience  linked  to  comprehension;  of  the  religious  in- 
stinct wedded  to  the  joy  of  the  artist.  No  other  work 
can  compare  with  it,  except  Tissot's  own  Old  Testament 
paintings  conceived  and  executed  under  similar  condi- 
tions. Michael  Angelo  in  his  frescoes,  Raphael  in  his 
madonnas,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  Carlo 
Dolce  and  Correggio,  achieved  beautiful  and  divine  mas- 
terpieces of  religious  painting.  That  these  masterpieces 
transcend  Tissot's  work  in  splendor  and  vigor  of  work- 
manship, in  magnificence  of  coloring  and  draughtsman- 
ship of  the  human  figure,  in  no  way  minimizes  or  cheap- 
ens the  glory  and  marvel  of  Tissot's  accomplishment. 
Half  of  those  early  Italian  artists  allowed  their  full- 
blooded  joy  in  human  flesh  and  human  form  and  human 
life  and  human  love  to  divest  their  work  of  the  finer  re- 
ligious significance,  while  the  other  half,  in  escaping  the 
robustness  of  their  age  took  refuge  in  allegorical  symbol- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         329 

ism,  which  as  often  as  not,  made  of  their  madonnas  and 
saints  and  angels  mere  lovely  dolls  invested  in  all  the 
circumstance  and  pomp  in  which  their  age  effloresced. 

Tissot  alone  has  thrown  the  veil  of  subtle  enchant- 
ment arising  from  hallowed  religious  traditions  rever- 
ently regarded  and  idealized  over  his  work.  The  robust, 
sensuously-living  Scriptural  characters  lose  none  of  their 
robustness,  none  of  their  characteristically  healthy  animal 
life,  in  his  hands.  Nevertheless  he  has  contrived,  by 
some  trick  of  genius,  to  represent  their  robustness  in 
such  a  light  that  it  does  not  repel,  while  their  sensuous- 
ness  appears  debrutalized  because  the  very  foreignness 
of  their  appurtenances,  the  intense  insistence  upon  the 
minutest  detail  of  dress  and  race  and  habitat,  removes 
them  so  far  from  our  own  plane  and  ken  that  we  do  not 
identify  the  passions  that  moved  them  as  being  the  same 
as  the  passions  that  move  us, — glossed  over,  refined  and 
modified  by  the  passing  of  twenty  centuries. 

Perhaps  none  but  a  Frenchman,  quick-witted  in  his  re- 
ligiosity and  innately  courteous  with  that  courtesy  which, 
though  it  may  offend  against  morals,  never  offends 
against  good  taste,  could  have  done  this. 

The  spiritual  atmosphere  which  enmeshed  the  paint- 
ings enchanted  Betty.  One  painting  particularly  held  her 
spell-bound.  Innumerable  hands, — strata  upon  strata  of 
ghostly  arms  and  hands  and  fingers  stretch  out  toward 
the  recumbent  figure  of  the  Saviour, — and  the  intense 
appeal  of  those  outstretched  entreating  hands,  surround- 
ed by  and  rising  out  of  a  bluish  mist  which  appears  as 
a  vast  luminous  shadow,  was  eloquent  as  a  prayer. 

Thoughts  of  Richard  ran  continually  in  Betty's  mind. 
Every  art  gallery  visited  by  her  heretofore  had  been 
visited  in  his  company,  and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  her 
that  those  tapering,  supplicating,  imploring  hands  were 
stretching  out  toward  herself  in  appeal  for  Richard.  A 


830         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

feeling  of  sanctity  invaded  her.  At  that  moment  she 
realized  that  Richard  was  carrying  his  punishment  about 
with  him ;  that  the  suffering  of  the  innocent  from  what- 
soever cause,  can  never  approach  the  suffering  of  those 
who  know  themselves  guilty. 

The  pleading,  ghostly  hands  haunted  her.  She  saw 
them  in  every  shifting  cloud  picture  of  the  sky,  in  the 
indistinct  outlines  of  trees  and  houses  in  the  lowering 
twilight. 

"Louise,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I  cannot  play  bridge 
to-night,  I  really  can't.  Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  go 
to  my  room  after  dinner?" 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  play  bridge  ?"  Louise  asked, 
comfortably. 

"I  don't  want  to  erase  the  feeling  left  by  those  pic- 
tures," Betty  answered,  honestly. 

Louise  thought  this  very  funny.  She  repeated  Betty's 
words  as  a  huge  joke  at  the  supper  table.  Mrs.  Reynolds 
smiled  serenely.  Tom  gave  a  fair  imitation  of  his  sis- 
ter's giggle  and  was  reprimanded  by  mother  and  sister. 
But  Mr.  Reynolds  said: 

"Miss  Betty  is  quite  right.  I  am  not  going  to  play 
bridge  to-night,  either." 

"Oh,  Papa,"  said  Louise,  "you  never  play  at  my  par- 
ties, you  know." 

"Well,  Louise,  it  is  kind  of  you  to  excuse  me,"  her  par- 
ent continued.  "I  vote,  Miss  Betty,  that  you  and  I  go 
off  alone  and  enjoy  ourselves  after  our  own  misunder- 
stood fashion.  What  do  you  say,  my  dear?" 

And  so,  after  dinner,  the  old  man  and  the  young  girl 
sallied  forth  together,  Betty  having  not  the  remotest  no- 
tion where  Mr.  Reynolds  was  taking  her.  Tom,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  Twentieth  Century  American  school- 
boy, demanded  to  know  "where  are  Pop  and  Miss  Betty 
going  to  elope  to." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         831 

They  were  within  a  block  of  their  destination  when 
Mr.  Reynolds  remarked : 

"My  dear,  I  am  taking  you  to  hear  Handel's  'Mes- 
siah,' sung  by  a  local  Oratorio  Society.  I  hope  that 
pleases  you." 

"Oh,  it's  angelic  of  you,"  said  Betty. 

"Tut,  tut,  wait  till  you  hear  them  sing  and  then  say 
that  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Reynolds.  "I've  not  missed 
one  of  their  oratorios  in  years.  Oh,  I  know  they  don't 
sing  like  trained  performers,  and  the  orchestra  needs  pol- 
ish and  practise,  but  I  enjoy  these  oratorios  as  I  enjoy 
no  other  music,  and  I  will  tell  you  why,  Miss  Betty." 
He  explained  to  her  that  the  young  men  and  women 
taking  part  in  the  chorus,  were  not  paid  for  their  serv- 
ices. They  joined  the  society  for  no  other  purpose  than 
the  joy  of  singing  the  music  of  the  master.  Most  of 
them  worked  during  the  week.  There  were  teachers  and 
clerks,  stenographers  and  shop  girls.  Every  Sunday  aft- 
ernoon during  the  winter  months  they  met  and  practiced 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  they  humbly  loved  the 
beautiful  music  which  they  sang  in  public  once  or  twice 
a  year.  That  was  the  right  spirit  in  which  to  approach 
any  art,  wasn't  it  ?  "And  so,"  Mr.  Reynolds  concluded, 
"when  anyone  tells  me  that  religion  and  idealism  are  dead 
among  us — when  folks  start  palavering  in  that  strain  to 
me,  I  always  refer  them  to  the  five  hundred  young  men 
and  women  of  this  oratorio  society,  and  the  thousands 
of  applicants  who  are  turned  away  every  year  because 
the  ranks  are  full.  And  this  is  the  twentieth  century, 
too." 

Betty  looked  in  surprise  at  the  butter  merchant.  She 
remembered  how  she  had  misjudged  him  when  at  Pen- 
ascapet.  She  recalled  her  wonder  that  Emma  and  Louise 
should  come  and  kiss  and  hug  him  as  they  invariably 
did  when  he  put  in  appearance  on  Saturday  afternoon. 


332         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Suddenly  she  felt  that  if  he  were  her  father,  she  would 
feel  the  very  same  affection  for  the  unkempt,  rough-and- 
ready  figure  beside  her  that  Louise  did.  She  had  never 
known  her  father,  and  she  felt  now,  for  the  first  time, 
the  wish  that  she  might  have  known  him.  She  remem- 
bered, too,  how  bitterly  she  had  resented  Mr.  Reynolds' 
suggestion  that  if  she  would  make  her  home  with  his 
family  during  the  winter,  he  and  his  wife  would  "marry 
her  off."  The  subtle  influences  which,  during  the  last 
year  had  been  at  work  upon  her,  made  her  regard  the 
suggestion  in  an  entirely  different  light  than  heretofore. 
Then  it  had  seemed  vulgar  in  intention  and  gross  in 
expression.  Now  it  seemed  a  kindly  intention  clumsily 
worded,  because  she  realized  now  that  Mr.  Reynolds 
had  wished  to  help  her  to  what  he  considered  the  supreme 
good  in  life  for  a  woman. 

Although  she  was  familiar  with  the  score,  Betty  had 
never  heard  the  Messiah.  The  wonderfully  beautiful 
music,  worthy  to  be  sung  by  the  angelic  hosts,  painted  by 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  completed  what  the  afternoon's  ex- 
perience had  begun.  As  she  stood  with  the  remainder 
of  the  audience  during  the  singing  of  the  Hallelujah, 
every  trace  of  anger  and  resentment  and  bitterness  was 
wiped  from  her  heart.  She  forgave  Richard  freely. 
Henceforth  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  until  she  would 
write  him. 

On  the  way  home,  Mr.  Reynolds  said:  "Now  we 
•won't  tell  them  where  we  were.  Louise  will  be  plaguing 
you  all  day  to-morrow  to  tell  her.  Just  plague  her  back," 
and  at  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning,  sure  enough, 
Louise  began  teasing: 

"You  might  have  least  come  into  the  parlor  last  night, 
instead  of  going  to  bed,  Betty,  when  you  came  in." 

"Where  were  you  last  night,  anyhow?"  Tom  de- 
manded. "You  and  Pop.  Ma,  I  should  think  you'd  keep 
an  eye  on  the  gov'nor." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         333 

"Ssss"  said  Louise,  pretending  to  disapprove  of  her 
brother's  question  because  she  wanted  to  talk  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "where  were  you?  I  guess  Father 
took  you  to  a  vaudeville  show,"  and  as  Betty  merely 
smiled  instead  of  answering,  Louise  asked: 

"Mother,  do  you  know  where  they  were?" 

Mrs.  Reynolds  smiled  her  inscrutably  majestic  smile. 
She  was  serving  her  spouse  to  a  second  helping  of  two- 
inch  deep  French  omelette. 

"Sugar,  father?    Jelly?" 

"Both,"  Tom  answered  for  his  father,  unreproved. 

"Well,"  giggled  Louise,  "if  you  won't  tell,  you  won't. 
I  am  going  to  dress  for  church."  She  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  began  playing  rag-time  in  the  parlor,  which 
was  located  directly  above  the  dining-room. 

''Tom,  go  and  tell  Louise  to  stop,"  Mrs.  Reynolds  com- 
manded. "Louise  knows  her  father  detests  ragtime  at 
breakfast." 

Tom  departed  only  to  reappear  immediately.  Through 
an  inch  wide  aperture  of  the  open  door,  he  hurled  the 
information  into  the  room  that  "Louise  says  the  ragtime 
is  ragtime  by  Wagner  and  therefore  not  ragtime  at  all." 

"Oh,  let  the  child  play  what  she  likes,"  growled  Mr. 
Reynolds.  "Next  Sunday,  I'll  bring  cotton  downstairs 
to  stuff  in  my  ears  so  I  can  read  my  paper  in  peace. 
Tom,  you  rascal,  go  and  blacken  your  boots  this  min- 
ute, or  I  won't  take  you  with  me  to  the  barber  shop." 

Tom  began  to  whine.  Why  couldn't  the  "ginny"  in 
front  of  the  barber  shop  black  his  boots  while  he  was 
waiting  for  his  father?  His  father  argued  with  him, 
Tom  "answered  back"  through  an  enlarged  aperture — his 
father  became  impatient  and  flustered,  Tom  tearful. 

Only  then  did  Mrs.  Reynolds  see  fit  to  interpose. 
Without  disturbing  her  habitual  serene  smile,  she  said 
majestically,  in  the  voice  of  a  tragedy  queen : 

"Go." 


334         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Tom  went. 

"Thank  heaven,"  said  Mr.  Reynolds,  "now  I  can  read 
my  paper."  He  was  soon  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  a 
double  deck  in  the  magazine  section  of  his  paper. 

"My  dear  Miss  Betty,"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds,  "my  hus- 
band asked  me  to  hand  you  this  little  check.  He  has 
just  handed  me  a  check  for  the  same  amount  to  spend 
on  Louise's  summer  outfit,  and  he  wished  you  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  buying  what  you  would  like  for  your- 
self." 

She  pushed  the  check  across  the  table  to  Betty,  and 
rose  to  leave  the  table.  Betty  stammered. 

"It  is  awfully  kind  of  you — but  really,  I  could  not  think 
of  accepting  it,  you  know.  I  ..." 

Mrs.  Reynolds  turned  on  her  way  to  the  kitchen. 

"You  will  have  to  talk  to  Mr.  Reynolds  about  it,"  she 
said.  "I  merely  acted  as  envoy."  And  she  left  the  room. 

Betty  was  alone  with  Mr.  Reynolds.  She  repeated  to 
him  what  she  had  said  to  his  wife.  He  laughed  at  her; 
Betty  became  more  insistent  in  her  refusal;  he  pro- 
tested, so  did  Betty.  Ultimately  he  declared: 

"I  rather  like  you  for  being  so  very  independent.  But, 
look  here,  my  girl,  if  you  ever  need  money,  something 
unforeseen — sickness,  loss  of  position — may  arise,  and  in 
that  event  I  want  you  to  promise  to  come  to  us — to  my 
wife  or  myself,  for  assistance." 

"I  promise,"  said  Betty,  and  Mr.  Reynolds,  without 
another  word,  threw  the  check  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  into  the  roaring  Baltimore  heater,  saying 
jocularly : 

"That's  the  first  time  my  signature  has  ever  been  re- 
fused." 

By  the  beginning  of  May,  the  Reynolds  had  closed 
their  house.  Mrs.  Reynolds  had  been  in  rather  bad 
health  for  some  time  past  and  her  husband  was  taking 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         335 

her  abroad  to  Karlsbad  or  Bad  Nauheim  for  a  cure. 
Louise  joined  a  party  of  friends  on  a  Cook's  Tour 
through  Yosemite,  Grand  Canyon  and  Yellowstone,  and 
Tom  was  expedited  to  some  school-camp  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  Before  leaving,  Louise  extracted  a  promise  from 
Betty  to  v-'ite  her,  promising  to  deluge  her  with  letters 
in  return,  and  at  first  post  cards  came  in  thick  and  fast. 
After  a  while  they  diminished  in  numbers,  and  a  little 
later  they  ceased  altogether.  Volatile  Louise,  as  her 
father  said,  did  not  forget  her  friends.  She  merely  for- 
got to  remember  them. 

At  the  end  of  April,  Madame  Hudrazzini  returned 
from  Chicago,  where  she  had  been  singing  in  opera  on 
an  especial  engagement.  Before  leaving  for  Europe  for 
her  summer's  holiday,  she  was  to  give  a  series  of  re- 
citals in  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  Boston.  Betty 
spent  several  evenings  with  her  in  a  charming  apart- 
ment she  had  furnished  for  herself.  Madame  Hudraz- 
zini's  largess  was  very  different  from  that  of  the  Rey- 
nolds household.  There  everything  hinged  on  money. 
The  entire  family  discussed  money  matters — dressmaker 
and  grocer's  bills,  the  relative  cost  of  steam  and  hot 
air  heating  with  the  most  charming  candor  and  uncon- 
cern for  the  guest  at  their  table.  The  house  was  over- 
decorated  and  overfurnished  throughout.  Every  article 
of  furniture — the  massively  carved  mahogany  sideboard 
as  well  as  the  rose-patterned  Axminster  carpet  conveyed 
the  mute  message  to  the  observant  beholder — "I  cost  so 
and  so  much."  At  Madame  Hudrazzini's  rigid  simplicity 
reigned  supreme.  Spindle  legged  Sheraton  sideboard 
with  knife  urns,  diamond-paned  Hepple white  bookcase, 
Adam  chairs  and  table,  high-boys  and  low-boys,  as  well 
as  the  Oriental  rugs  of  unobtrusive  tints,  were  so  mel- 
lowed and  subdued  by  the  passing  of  years  that  the 
money  they  had  cost  and  into  which  they  might  be  con- 


336         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

verted  at  any  moment,  was  wholly  lost  sight  of,  the  po- 
tential financial  value  being  eclipsed  by  the  aroma  of 
paramount  and  enduring  worth  which  hangs  about  arti- 
cles which  were  old  when  our  grandsires  were  young. 

Madame  Hudrazzini,  unlike  the  Reynolds,  did  not 
hesitate  to  question  Betty  concerning  Dick.  She  had 
heard  of  their  estrangement  through  Direktor  Markheim. 
who  had  the  story  from  old  Mr.  Telfer.  At  the  end  of 
a  delightful  five-course  luncheon  in  her  own  apartments, 
she  broached  the  subject. 

"Carissima,"  she  said,  "I  am  desolated  by  the  idea  that 
you  may  have  broken  with  your  young  man  for  good. 
Not  so?" 

"Nothing  definite  was  agreed  upon,"  said  Betty.  "I 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  for  a  while.  I  was  so  horribly 
hurt.  I  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"He  does  not  know  where  he  stands  with  you  ?" 

"No." 

"And  he  made  no  effort  to  see  you?" 

"He  wouldn't,  you  know,  having  tacitly  agreed  not  to." 

Madame  Hudrazzini  became  thoughtful. 

"It  is  not,"  she  said,  "that  I  wish  to  frighten  you. 
But  you  have  done  a  foolish  thing.  You  may  lose  him 
by  thus  sending  him  from  you." 

"Dick  will  never  turn  from  me,"  said  Betty  proudly. 
"In  spite  of  everything,  we  belong  to  each  other." 

"Men  are  men.  He  has  shown  that  once.  Write  him 
to-morrow — to-night,  carissima,  and  bring  him  to  your 
side." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  losing  him,"  Betty  said  with  stub- 
born pride.  "I  would  not  write  him  for  that  reason. 
But  I  have  forgiven  him — and  in  a  few  days  I  will  tell 
him  so." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Italian,  "have  a  care,  carissima.  Do 
not  make  him — how  do  you  say — eat  too  much  humble 


THE    VOICE   OF    THE   HEART         337 

pie.  Men  do  not  like  to  eat  humble  pie  as  a  dessert  to 
follow  their  misdeeds." 

"He  has  eaten  it  already,"  said  Betty  composedly. 

"You  are  hard — hard  and  cold  as  marble,  little  one. 
You  will  have  to  change.  Your  Richard  loves  you  now, 
but  men  are  men,  and,  believe  me,  carissima,  there  are 
times  in  every  woman's  life  when  she  must  overlook." 

Betty  looked  at  the  great  prima  donna  curiously.  She 
remembered  that  the  widow  Hudrazzini  had  been  faith- 
ful to  the  memory  of  her  husband  for  ten  long  years; 
and  that  husband,  she  could  not  but  infer  from  the  com- 
plexion of  Madame  Hudrazzini's  remarks,  had  been 
faithless  to  her,  perhaps  more  than  once.  A  sudden 
shivering  fear  of  men  and  their  ways  struck  to  her 
heart.  Were  they  really  all  like  that?  Even  her  Dick? 
Her  Anglo-Saxon  blood  rose  in  sudden  hot  revolt  against 
that  form  of  deception  and  moral  laxness  which  the 
Latin  woman  accepted  so  tranquilly,  and  condoned. 

"I  will  never  overlook,"  she  said  almost  viciously. 
"And  I  will  not  change.  I  want  to  remain  as  I  am — 
hard  and  cold." 

"This  one  offense  you  should  overlook,"  pleaded  the 
great  singer.  "See,  carissima,  you  are  not  even  mar- 
ried. Before  marriage,  a  man  may  sow  his  wild 
oats." 

Betty  shook  her  head  in  vigorous  negation. 

"The  same  law  for  man  and  woman,"  she  said. 

"No,  no;  love  is  a  very  different  thing  for  man  than 
for  woman.  A  woman  gives  every  fiber  of  herself  to 
the  man  she  loves ;  not  so  the  man.  And  then,  carissima, 
we  women  must  be  a  little  bit  better  than  men — there  is 
the  pleasure  of  forgiving,  you  know." 

"It  is  a  pleasure  I  will  gladly  forego,"  said  Betty. 

In  spite  of  her  brave  pretense  at  fearlessness  in  regard 
to  being  sure  of  Dick,  Madame  Hudrazzini  had  stirred  to 


338         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

life  in  her  heart  a  vague  uneasiness  that  became  more 
and  more  specific  as  the  days  went  by. 

And  now,  just  because  she  was  uneasy,  she  would 
not  communicate  with  him.  Finally,  after  much  com- 
muning with  herself,  she  telephoned  to  Telfer's  and 
asked  for  Mr.  Pryce,  without  giving  her  name.  She  was 
told  he  was  west  and  would  return  some  time  in  June. 
More  disappointed  than  she  liked  to  admit,  she  rang 
off  without  asking  for  his  address.  It  occurred  to  her 
subsequently  that  she  might  address  a  letter  to  him  to 
Telfer's  marked,  "Please  forward."  But,  after  all,  she 
'decided  to  await  his  return  and  tell  him  orally  that  she 
had  wiped  the  past  off  the  slate. 

She  thought  things  over  a  good  deal  at  night,  and 
began  carefully  reading  the  scores  of  the  standard 
operas.  She  happened  upon  Tannhaeuser.  She  remem- 
bered the  deep  impression  that  opera  had  made  upon 
her,  but  when  she  remembered  Earlcote's  belief  that  sin 
was  necessary  for  the  growth  and  maturing  of  the  soul, 
she  threw  the  book  aside  in  disgust.  How  was  sin  to 
further  the  growth  of  Dicky's  soul,  for  furthering 
meant  helping,  and  how  was  Dicky  being  helped  by  his 
lapse?  The  thought  of  sin,  in  connection  with  herself, 
never  occurred  to  her. 

Earlcote  came  to  see  her  one  day  in  her  ofBce.  Ever 
since  the  evening  on  which  he  had  turned  over  to  Kitty 
the  Kasi-Nook,  he  had  had  a  private  detective  shadow 
Betty.  But  he  feigned  ignorance  of  everything  that  had 
transpired. 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling  sourly,  "so  I  have  found  you 
at  last." 

Betty  nerved  herself  to  answer  lightly. 

"That  sounds  as  if  you  had  been  looking  for  me  a 
long  time." 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  ever  since  you  disappeared 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         339 

from  Telfer's.  I  cannot  allow  the  little  song-bird  I  wan? 
to  snare  to  get  too  far  beyond  my  reach." 

All  Betty's  fear  and  dislike  for  this  man,  which  had 
been  forced  into  the  background  of  her  thoughts  by  her 
recent  trouble  with  Dick,  came  rushing  back. 

"You  will  never  snare  this  particular  song-bird,''  she 
said  coldly. 

Earlcote  laughed — the  low,  sneering,  derisive  laugh 
that  always  made  Betty  ache  to  strangle  him. 

"We  will  see,"  he  said. 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  me  about  anything  in  particu- 
lar, Mr.  Earlcote  ?  Otherwise — I  am  busy." 

"Oh,  come,  come — surely,  you  are  not  going  to  turn 
me  away  with  such  a  scant  welcome  as  all  that.  I  have 
had  a  great  time  locating  you.  Your  whipper-snapper 
refused  point-blank  to  give  me  your  address." 

"Really?" 

"He  did.  Still  too  much  in  love  with  him  to  think  of 
a  career  for  yourself  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Yes  or  no?" 

Instead  of  replying,  Betty  attempted  to  look  bored, 
but  her  effort  was  not  a  signal  success. 

"I  fancied,"  Earlcote  continued,  "I  fancied  you  had 
asked  him  not  to  give  your  address  to  me." 

"And  what  made  you  think  that,  Mr.  Earlcote?" 

"You  are  going  to  be  angry,  furiously  angry,  with  me 
when  I  tell  you.  I  had  a  notion  that  you  left  Telfer's 
because  you  were  afraid  of  me — hoping,  you  know,  that; 
I  would  lose  your  trail." 

Betty  was  too  amazed  to  be  angry.    Finally  she  said : 

"Absurd." 

"I  see  I  was  mistaken.  That's  humiliating  for  me,  I 
assure  you.  I  was  enormously  flattered  to  think  that 
your  terror  of  me  had  reached  such  a  climax." 


340         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Betty,  laughing,  "I  do  not 
believe  that  I  have  thought  of  you  once  these  last  weeks." 

"Worse  and  worse,"  Earlcote  smiled  wanly.  "Think 
of  me  now.  Or  rather,  think  of  your  voice  and  your 
future.  Think  of  the  dresses,  jewels,  carriages,  horses ; 
think  of  everything  your  voice  will  be  able  to  procure  for 
you  once  it  has  been  cultivated." 

"I  desire  only  such  dresses,  jewels,  carriages,  horses 
as  my  husband  will  some  day  be  able  to  give  me." 

Earlcote  looked  at  her  searchingly. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Garside,"  he  said,  "I  know  what  has 
happened  through  Mr.  Telfer — why  you  broke  your  en- 
gagement to  Mr.  Pryce." 

"You  are  mistaken.  Our  engagement  is  not  broken — 
merely  suspended  indefinitely." 

"I  thought  you  a  girl  of  more  spirit  than  to  go  on 
loving  a  man  who  has  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  Rich- 
ard Pryce  did." 

Betty  had  been  sitting  with  her  face  turned  sideways 
to  Earlcote.  She  worked  while  she  talked,  but  now  she 
abruptly  dropped  her  work,  swinging  around  in  her 
revolving  chair,  and,  facing  Earlcote,  her  arms  crossed 
over  her  bosom,  prepared  to  have  her  say.  Again  she 
felt  the  inexplicable  access  of  a  more  mature  personality 
than  her  own,  which  came  to  her  so  often  in  Earlcote's 
presence.  The  very  thoughts  she  uttered  when  she  be- 
gan speaking  did  not  seem  her  own.  But  as  she  con- 
tinued it  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  lain  cradled  in 
*the  chaos  from  which  thought  is  born  and  brought  forci- 
bly to  the  threshold  of  speech  and  crystallized  into  pre- 
cise nuggets  of  thought,  by  Earlcote's  arraignment. 

"Mr.  Earlcote,"  she  said,  "in  spite  of  all  your  worldly 
wisdom,  in  spite  of  your  vaunted  knowledge  of  love,  I 
think  you  know  nothing  whatever  of  its  real  nature. 
l*Real  love  endureth  all  things/  all  trials  and  sorrows. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         341 

Because  Richard  has  done  wrong,  do  you  think  I  could 
turn  from  him?  If  I  were  capable  of  doing  that,  I 
would  never  have  loved  him.  If  anything,  I  feel  I  must 
love  him  all  the  more  because  of  his  wrongdoing.  En- 
emies and  the  public  guardians  of  morality  judge  us  and 
condemn  us,  and  if  love  were  content  to  do  the  same, 
were  content  to  judge  and  condemn,  wherein  would  love 
differ  from  hate  and  from  justice?  Love,  instead  of 
judging  actions,  sympathizes  with  temptations  and  fail- 
ings— gets  the  viewpoint  of  the  culprit,  and  forgives. 
Richard  is  everything  to  me,  and  I  know  that  I  am 
first  in  the  world  to  him  always,  although  I  have  nftt 
seen  him  for  months.  You  may  sneer  all  you  wish. 
I  know  what  I  know.  The  voice  of  the  heart  tells  me 
this  is  so,  and  I  believe  it." 

"His  sex  calls  to  you — that  is  why  you  forgive  him," 
said  Earlcote  brutally. 

"I  did  not  suppose  you  could  understand.  You  are 
as  incapable  of  rising  to  my  views,  as  I,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  am  unable  to  lower  myself  to  an  understanding  of 
yours." 

Earlcote  grew  a  trifle  paler;  his  jaws  moved  con- 
vulsively for  a  moment. 

"Why  do  you  despise  me  so?"  he  asked. 

"Because  you  are  bad,  evil.  Oh,  I  know  nothing 
of  you  or  your  life  further  than  what  you  have  told 
me.  But  you  cheated  Richard  out  of  his  chance, 
and  a  man  who  can  do  that  is — well — weak  and 
contemptible." 

"Instead  of  flinging  words  at  me,  let  me  propose  some- 
thing to  you — a  bargain." 

"Thank  you,  none  of  your  bargains,  Mr.  Earlcote." 

"Bona-fide?" 

"I  will  not  be  your  pupil,  if  that  is  what  you  want  to 
suggest  again.  Why,  even  if  I  were  ambitious,  I  would 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

not  consent  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you.  Nothing. 
I  despise  you  too  heartily." 

She  uncrossed  her  arms,  which  she  had  held  firmly 
clasped  across  her  bosom,  as  if  to  protect  the  tabernacle 
of  her  heart,  in  which  her  love  lay  enshrined,  against 
the  malevolence  of  her  interlocutor. 

"That  reminds  me,"  Betty  continued,  "I  still  have 
the  set  of  half  bills  which  I  was  foolish  enough  to  pick 
up  at  your  house.  Will  you  allow  me  to  return  them  to 
you  now?" 

"Do  with  them  what  you  wish,  you  little  love-sick 
fool!" 

She  had  made  Earlcote  angry  at  last.  His  cadaverous 
face  was  livid.  "Your  self-conceit  is  insufferable.  You 
pride  yourself  on  your  coldness,  your  austerity,  your 
unselfishness,  your  sinlessness — yes,  not  only  on  your 
sinlessness  but  on  your  incapacity  for  sinning.  You'll 
be  brought  low,  yes,  into  the  dust,  my  fine  lady,  and, 
mark  my  words,  you'll  suffer!  Heavens  and  earth,  how 
you  will  suffer !  On  the  whole,  I  am  glad  you  refuse  to 
be  my  pupil.  I  would  have  been  out  both  time  and 
money  and,  in  all  probability,  have  had  nothing  to  show 
for  it.  I  don't  believe  your  voice  will  ever  amount  to 
anything  anyhow." 

"The  grapes  are  sour,"  Betty  was  stung  into  retorting. 

Earlcote  laughed  harshly. 

"You  haven't  the  brains  or  the  heart  to  vivify  your 
voice,"  he  went  on.  "It's  a  spiritless  toy,  and  while  you 
obstinately  continue  to  bolster  up  your  pride  in  being 
different  from  the  rest  of  the  human  race,  in  being  im- 
mune from  the  emotions  which  sway  the  rest  of  hu- 
manity, your  voice  will  not  change." 

He  motioned  to  his  Hindus,  and  if  they  had  not  been 
there  to  support  him  he  would  have  fallen.  His  fury 
had  sapped  his  vitality,  such  as  it  was.  Fascinated,  and 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         343 

in  silence,  Betty  saw  the  Earlcote  servants  support  him 
from  her  office. 

Earlcote's  rage  on  passing  left  him  weak-kneed  and 
nauseated.  The  temperature  maintained  in  his  automo- 
bile was  eighty  degrees,  but  in  spite  of  this  torrid  heat 
he  had  a  nervous  chill  on  entering  the  vehicle.  He  was 
furious  that  his  plans  had  miscarried;  furious  that  he 
had  parted  with  the  Kasi-Nook  without  having  some- 
thing to  show  in  return ;  furious  with  the  "little  love-sick 
fool" ;  furious,  most  of  all,  with  himself  for  being  furi- 
ous. His  enfeebled  health  did  not  permit  him  to  indulge 
in  paroxysms  of  rage  with  impunity. 

Arrived  at  home,  he  sat  moodily  in  the  gathering  dusk 
settling  down  over  the  vast  aviary.  His  pet,  the  pink- 
legged  flamingo,  came  and,  unnoticed  by  its  master, 
begged  for  tidbits.  The  kingfishers  flapped  and 
screamed,  the  cockatoos  chattered,  the  monkeys  palav- 
ered, the  palms  stirred  with  ghostly,  phantomlike  move- 
ments in  the  air,  vaguely  set  into  motion  by  the  twilight 
activity  of  the  birds.  And  the  man  who  owned  all  this 
splendor  sat  in  a  forlorn  little  heap,  thinking  sinister 
thoughts  and  incubating  sinister  plans. 

His  mind,  lashed  into  desperate  resolution,  traveled 
along  unbelievable  lines.  There  lay  the  pool  where  the 
herons  and  kingfishers  and  flamingoes  lived.  The 
water,  changed  day  by  day,  was  sweet  and  pure.  Re- 
maining unchanged  for  a  few  weeks,  it  would  be  stag- 
nant, impure,  putrid.  Young  oysters  placed  there,  as  they 
waxed  fat  and  succulent,  would  become  infected  as 
well.  Infected  oysters  eaten  by  a  guest — by  Richard 
Pryce,  and  Mr.  Telfer,  if  asked  on  a  suitable  pretext, 
would  send  him — would  mean  probably  typhoid.  Ty- 
phoid, since  Richard  was  in  relatively  poor  condition, 
would  inevitably  mean  death. 

It  was  a  tempting  plan.    The  chances  were  ninety-nine 


344         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

to  a  hundred  that  it  would  not  miscarry.  And  once 
Richard  was  out  of  the  way,  Betty  would  work  hard,  and 
her  voice  would  be  his  to  train,  to  fashion,  to  mould. 

But  Earlcote  was  afraid  to  put  this  plan  into  execu- 
tion. He  had  all  the  amateur  criminal's  fear  of  the 
law.  He  did  not  fear  for  Earlcote,  the  individual,  the 
man  who  had  been  trampled  upon  by  an  elephant;  he 
feared  for  Earlcote  the  musician.  It  was  insufferable 
to  think  that  the  lustrous  name  of  the  unequalled,  un- 
matchable  pianist  of  all  history  should  be  tarnished  by  a 
crime. 

The  languid  energy  of  Earlcote's  hybrid  blood  during 
his  sojourn  in  India  had  become  tinctured  with  the  in- 
vincible patience  of  the  Asiatic.  In  India  he  had  learned 
the  secret  of  waiting  stealthily  until  opportunity  throws 
the  ball  of  fortune  into  one's  lap.  He  had  learned  that 
sooner  or  later,  the  phalanx  of  each  man's  destiny  ad- 
mits an  opening  wedge  through  which  his  enemies,  if 
ever  alert,  can  penetrate. 

As  the  clock  struck  seven  Earlcote  reached  his  deci- 
sion. He  would  wait.  And  fortune  was  to  favor  him 
sooner  than  he  had  anticipated  in  a  way  curiously  in 
consonance  with  his  secret  wishes. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

May  passed  in  a  whirl  of  golden  light  and  spring 
tremors.  June  came  in  dressed  in  burning  gold  and  the 
pink  of  magnolia  blossoms  and  cherry  trees. 

Coming  home  one  Saturday  afternoon,  Betty  was  im- 
pelled by  the  strange  ardors  of  the  season  and  the 
mingling  of  spiritual  turmoil  and  bodily  lassitude,  to 
arrive  at  the  mighty  decision  that  she  would  telephone 
Richard  early  the  next  morning,  for,  meeting  Telfer's 
cashier,  Mr.  Hoffman,  on  the  street  the  week  before,  she 
had  heard  through  him  that  Richard  was  back  in  New 
York. 

When  she  entered  the  house  Mrs.  Presbey  met  her 
with  a  grave  face. 

"I  am  forced  to  break  a  promise  I  gave  Richard  a 
long  time  ago,"  she  began  rather  sententiously. 

"Why?    What  is  it?" 

"Before  you  came  to  live  here  Richard  made  some 
changes  in  your  room.  Among  other  things,  he  rented 
a  piano  for  you." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  has  been  paying  for  the  piano 
I  am  using  all  this  time?" 

Mrs.  Presbey  nodded. 

"Well,  he  didn't  pay  for  it  this  week,  and  the  collector 
came  here  to  say  that  unless  the  rental  is  paid  by  next 
Wednesday,  the  piano  will  be  removed." 

"Dick  is  in  town — that  means  that  he  is  ill.  Have  you 
telephoned  the  office?" 

"No." 

Betty  rushed  from  the  room  and  to  the  telephone. 

345 


846         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Give  me — "  she  stumbled  so  hastily  over  the  number 
that  she  was  forced  to  repeat  it  three  times. 

"Is  this  Telfer's?  This  is  Miss  Garside.  Will  you 
tell  me  whether  Mr.  Pryce  is  ill?  What?  Typhoid 
pneumonia?  Where?  Post  Graduate  or  Bellevue,  you 
don't  know  which?  Thank  you." 

She  rang  off  and  came  back  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Presbey,"  she  gasped,  "he  has  typhoid 
pneumonia !  and  he  has  been  in  a  hospital  for  five  days." 

Both  women  sat  very  still  for  a  moment.  Suddenly 
Mrs.  Presbey  said  in  an  emphatic  tone: 

"Typhoid!  Well,  his  stomach  never  was  strong,  and 
I  suppose  since  he  left  here  he  has  been  living  on  regu- 
lar boarding-house  fare.  I  can  only  say  it  was  a  pity 
he  wasn't  allowed  to  remain  in  my  house,  which,  he  al- 
ways said,  poor  boy,  was  the  only  home  he  had  ever 
known." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Presbey,"  cried  Betty,  stung  by  the  older 
woman's  remarks.  "I  didn't  ask  him  to  go.  I  asked 
him  to  stay.  I  wanted  to  leave  here  instead." 

"All  I  can  say  is  I  wish  I  had  never  consented  to  have 
you  come  here." 

"You — didn't  want  me  to  come?"  stammered  Betty. 

"I  certainly  did  not." 

Mrs.  Presbey  closed  her  lips  tautly,  closed  them  with 
a  snap,  like  a  steel  spring  closing  upon  some  poor, 
trapped  thing.  Betty  caught  her  breath  sharply. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  had  no  idea  of  that.  You've  been 
so  kind  to  me,  you  know.  I  never  guessed." 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  come,"  Mrs.  Presbey  continued,, 
her  wrath  gathering  rapidly,  "because  I  had  a  feeling,  a 
premonition,  that  no  good  would  come  of  it.  Although 
I  didn't  anticipate  the  thing  that  actually  happened." 

"What  do  you  mean,"  stammered  Betty,  "by  'the 
thing  that  actually  happened'?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         347 

"I  mean — that  you  would  drive  Richard  into  what 
happened  to  him  by  your  heartlessness  and  coldness." 

"Heartless?     I?    Why,  Mrs.  Presbey!" 

"You  didn't  in  the  least  appreciate  his  honesty  in  not 
allowing  you  to  marry  him  without  telling  you  the  truth," 
Mrs.  Presbey  continued.  "Many  a  man  wouldn't  have 
told,  would  have  lied  himself  out  of  it,  would  have  mar- 
ried the  girl  to  whom  he  was  engaged.  But  Richard 
acted  honorably  with  you,  and  small  thanks  he  got  for  it, 
I  must  say." 

Betty  sat  very  still. 

"Mrs.  Presbey,"  she  said,  "I  never  wavered  in  my 
love  for  Dick — never.  And  now — nothing  matters  but 
Dick's  pulling  through." 

Mrs.  Presbey  softened.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
Betty's  distress  made  the  old  lady  pity  the  girl.  Her 
anger  against  Betty  vanished. 

"Do  you  think  they  will  allow  me  to  stay  there,  in 
the  hospital  with  him?" 

"Hardly." 

"But  I  cannot  stand  being  away  from  him,  now  he 
is  ill!  I  want  to  look  after  him;  to  take  care  of  him." 

"Ah!  you  do  loVe  him  after  all." 

"Love  him?    I  adore  him." 

"Hm." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Presbey,"  Betty  continued,  choking  back 
the  tears  that  were  rising,  "I  must  be  near  Dick.  I 
have  almost  a  hundred  dollars  saved  up.  If  it  takes  my 
last  penny,  I  must  be  near  Dick.  What  do  you  think 
they  will  charge  me  for  my  board  in  the  hospital?" 

"You  cannot  go  to  the  hospital,"  said  Mrs.  Presbey 
with  sudden  gentleness,  "and  you  had  better  keep  your 
hundred  dollars.  You'll  be  needing  the  money  for  odds 
and  ends  when  he  begins  to  rally.  I  think,  Miss  Betty, 
if  he  can  be  moved,  we'll  bring  him  home." 


348 


But  Dr.  Moran,  who  had  had  Richard  removed  to 
the  hospital  on  finding  he  had  typhoid,  would  not  allow 
him  to  be  taken  away.  There  followed  weeks  of  heart- 
breaking, soul-harrowing  suspense.  The  hospital  was 
so  crowded  that  Betty  was  unable  to  obtain  a  room  in  it, 
even  if  she  had  been  able  to  pay  for  one,  which,  on 
inquiry,  she  found  would  have  been  out  of  the  question. 
Every  leisure  moment  was  consumed  in  trips  to  the  hos- 
pital. On  such  evenings,  when  she  was  unable  to  see 
Dick  because  his  temperature  was  high,  she  sat  in  im- 
potent anxiety  in  the  waiting-room  for  hours,  hoping 
blindly  to  receive  word  of  a  change  for  the  better  before 
going  home  for  the  night. 

Then  there  was  the  indescribable,  overwhelming,  mad- 
dening agony  of  each  seventh  day,  on  which  the  crisis, 
sooner  or  later,  was  bound  to  occur.  Once,  on  the 
twenty-first  day,  Dick  was  so  low  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  crisis  was  actually  at  hand.  But  the  dreaded  day 
passed  without  a  change  for  better  or  worse.  It  seemed 
to  Betty,  in  the  week  that  intervened  between  the  twenty- 
first  and  twenty-eighth  day,  that  the  uncertainty  was 
worse  than  any  possible  certainty  could  be,  and  she 
prayed  fervently  that  the  approaching  twenty-eighth  day 
would  mean  a  turn  in  the  tide.  But  when  the  twenty- 
eighth  day  dawned,  she  realized  that  rather  than  lose 
her  Dicky  she  would  live  in  uncertainty  all  her  life.  It 
was,  after  all,  a  week  later  that  Dick  finally  began  to 
rally  and  was  declared  out  of  danger.  In  another  fort- 
night they  brought  him  home  to  Mrs.  Presbey's. 

Betty  herself  was  worn  to  a  shadow.  Deep  circles 
were  formed  under  her  eyes;  her  complexion,  always 
pale,  was  now  white  as  alabaster;  but  her  heart  was 
filled  with  blithe  songs,  though  eyes  and  limbs  were 
alike  heavy  from  sleepless  nights. 

When  Richard  was  taken  away  from  the  hospital  Dr. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         349 

Moran  asked  the  Superintendent  to  return  Richard's 
valuables,  left  in  the  office  for  safekeeping,  to  Betty. 
Among  the  valuables  were  Richard's  bank  book,  and  two 
unopened  letters  bearing  the  Telfer  imprint.  An  ac- 
counting that  showed  that  Richard,  on  the  day  he  was 
brought  to  the  hospital,  had  paid  the  sum  of  three  hun- 
dred dollars  by  special  check  on  his  savings  bank.  He 
had  been  there  seven  weeks,  at  sixty  dollars  a  week,  mak- 
ing the  total  amount  of  his  indebtedness  four  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars.  In  other  words,  one  hundred  and 
twenty  dollars  were  still  due  the  hospital.  Betty  went 
to  her  bank  and  drew  her  entire  savings,  amounting  to 
but  a  few  dollars  more  than  the  sum  she  paid  the  hos- 
pital to  clear  Richard's  indebtedness. 

There  was  nothing  heroic  in  her  doing  so.  If  it  had 
been  necessary  for  her  to  sacrifice  her  savings  for  Rich- 
ard, she  would  gladly  have  done  so,  but  she  believed  that 
Richard's  bank  account  showed  a  considerable  balance, 
and  she  drew  her  own  money  to  pay  the  hospital  bill 
merely  because  the  physician  had  warned  her  against  tax- 
ing Richard's  nervous  system  and  mind  in  any  way  for 
some  weeks  to  come.  Betty  had  Richard's  bank  book  in 
her  possession,  but  she  did  not  open  it,  nor  did  she  open 
the  letters  for  him  from  Telfer's.  Near  and  close  as 
she  was  to  him,  a  fine  sense  of  chivalry,  more  unusual 
in  women  than  in  men,  made  her  shrink,  even  at  such 
a  moment,  from  reading  his  correspondence  or  looking 
at  his  financial  accounts. 

Betty  obtained  a  week's  leave  of  absence  without 
pay,  after  Richard's  return  to  Mrs.  Presbey's,  as  Mrs. 
Presbey  was  unable  to  assume  the  entire  burden  of 
waiting  on  him,  and  Betty  figured  that  it  would  have 
been  more  expensive  to  engage  a  trained  nurse  at 
twenty-five  dollars  per  week,  than  to  forfeit  her  own 
salary  of  eighteen  dollars,  apart  from  the  sentimental 


350         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

reason  that  she  wanted  to  be  near  her  Dick  during  this 
first  week  of  his  convalescence  at  home. 

Dr.  Moran  took  Betty  aside  on  the  second  day  of 
Richard's  removal  and  said  to  her: 

"Pryce  has  been  a  pretty  sick  man,  and  he  had  not 
been  in  first-class  physical  condition  for  some  time  before 
he  fell  ill." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  murmured  Betty. 

"You  understand,  Miss  Garside,  that  you  will  have 
to  get  him  out  of  the  city  just  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"When  do  you  think  we  can  move  him?" 

"We'll  have  to  be  able  to  move  him  a  week  from  to- 
day or  to-morrow." 

Something  in  Dr.  Moran's  voice  sent  a  wave  of  ap- 
prehension through  Betty. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  stammered. 

"I  mean  that,  although  we  have  pulled  him  through 
the  actual  disease,  he  is  in  such  a  feeble  condition  that 
the  uphill  fight  back  to  health  is  going  to  take  months — 
months.  It's  July  now.  He  won't  be  fit  to  go  to  work 
before  December — at  the  very  earliest.  And  he  has  got 
to  have  good  care  and  cheerful  company.  If  he  is  to 
pull  through — someone  has  got  to  go  away  with  him  to 
give  him  constant  attention — either  a  nurse,  or  yourself, 
for  he  is  going  to  require  continual  care." 

"I  suppose  I  can  go  with  him,"  faltered  Betty. 

"That  would  be  best.  Pryce  had  something  on  his1 
mind  when  he  fell  ill — I  mean  about  your  falling  out." 

"Yes,"  Betty  assented,  blushing. 

"And  that  didn't  tend  to  give  him  a  better  chance. 
If  you  can  manage  to  go  away  with  him,  it  means  that 
the  battle  is  half  won.  I  am  not  an  alarmist,  but  it  is 
absolutely  essential  that  you  get  him  away  as  quickly 
as  possible." 

"Where  is  he  to  go?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         351 

"I'll  give  you  a  couple  of  addresses — a  farmhouse  at 
Pocono,  and  a  very  delightful  large  boarding-house  in 
the  Adirondacks.  The  latter  would  be  the  better  place 
to  go  to,  as  they  have  all  modern  equipments,  steam 
heat,  hot  water,  in  fact,  all  the  essential  conveniences." 

He  wrote  down  the  addresses  for  Betty,  and  handed 
them  to  her. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose  you  young 
folks  are  very  rich.  You  needn't  worry  about  my  bill. 
Richard  can  pay  it  after  he  gets  back  to  work,  some 
time  at  the  end  of  next  year.  I  am  very  fond  of  Richard, 
and  if  I  were  a  little  richer  myself  I  would  offer  to  help 
you  out  with  a  little  ready  cash.  But  I  dare  say  you  can 
manage." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  we  can,"  said  Betty. 

Again  Dr.  Moran  opened  the  door,  and  again  he  closed 
it. 

"You'll  be  sure  to  get  him  off  within  a  week?"  he 
asked,  insistently.  "He  is  very  weak,  and  the  weather  is 
devilish." 

"I'll  be  ready  within  a  week,"  Betty  said.  She  had 
the  feeling  of  delivering  herself  blindly  into  the  hands 
of  a  juggernaut  destiny  as  she  made  the  simple  state- 
ment. 

The  door  closed  at  last  behind  the  physician. 

Betty  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs,  and 
folded  her  hands  over  her  knees.  How  fluently  she 
had  repeated  that  they  would  be  able  to  manage  to  get 
away,  but  the  future  loomed  before  her  excited  imagina- 
tion like  some  preposterous  mountain,  iceberg  or  vol- 
cano, ready  to  crush  both  of  them  beneath  its  overtop- 
pling  weight.  Neither  she  nor  Richard  working,  and 
five  months'  board  to  be  paid  for  both  of  them ! 

Inactivity  became  insufferable.  She  darted  nimbly  up- 
stairs, into  Richard's  room.  He  had  fallen  asleep.  The 


352         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

room  was  darkened,  but  in  spite  of  the  four  large 
pieces  of  ice  placed  near  the  bed  to  cool  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  room,  the  frightful  heat  and  humidity  which 
had  made  of  the  city  a  sort  of  purgatorial  torture  cham- 
ber for  the  past  weeks,  seemed  to  penetrate  even  to  this 
sequestered  room.  The  throbbing  arteries  of  the  city 
through  which  flowed  incessant  tumult  and  truceless 
noise  sent  tokens  of  the  city's  ruthless  activity  into  the 
sickroom.  Each  truck  that  lumbered  past,  every  elec- 
tric car  clanging  heavily  on  noisy  wheels,  sent  a  cruel 
jar  of  apprehension  through  Betty.  Would  Dick  waken  ? 
She  trembled  at  sound  of  a  dishpan  clattering  from  the 
stove  to  the  kitchen  floor  two  floors  below,  and  of  an 
ironing  board  falling  heavily  upon  a  washtub,  the  noise 
of  the  latter  being  borne  across  the  narrow  backyard 
from  an  opposite  apartment  house. 

Betty  knelt  down  beside  Richard.  She  did  not  touch 
his  hand  or  his  face,  but,  kneeling,  stared  at  him  in 
mute  anguish.  Dick,  her  Dick,  so  strong,  so  well  a 
short  time  ago,  turned  into  this  living  skeleton;  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept  silently.  Her 
tears  ceased  as  abruptly  as  they  had  begun. 

"Ah,  Dick — "  she  did  not  whisper  the  words — but 
merely  formed  them  on  her  lips.  "Oh,  Dick — you're 
mine,  you  belong  to  me,  you  shan't  die." 

She  tiptoed  across  the  room  and  with  nervous  fingers 
began  searching  for  the  two  unopened  envelopes  from 
Telfer's,  and  for  Richard's  bank  book.  Once  a  comb 
scraped  the  wood  of  the  drawer  in  which  it  lay,  and  she 
turned  in  an  agony  of  fear  to  see  whether  she  had 
awakened  Dick.  She  wanted  to  stop  and  defer  her 
search,  but  a  blind,  unreasonable  and  unreasoning  fear 
had  taken  possession  of  her  and  drove  her  on.  Finally 
she  found  what  she  was  looking  for.  Hastily  she  ripped 
open  the  envelopes.  Each  one,  as  she  had  surmised,  con- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 353 

tained  a  check  for  Richard's  salary — thirty-five  dollars. 
They  bore  the  dates  of  the  first  two  weeks  of  Richard's 
illness,  and  the  later  check  was  accompanied  by  a  note 
from  Hoffman,  the  cashier,  stating  curtly  that  Mr.  Tel- 
fer,  before  leaving  New  York,  had  issued  instructions  to 
pay  Mr.  Pryce  two  weeks'  salary,  and  to  suspend  his 
name  from  the  payroll. 

Betty's  hand  shook  as  she  opened  Dick's  bank  book. 
She  knew,  he  himself  had  told  her,  that  the  Europe  Fund 
amounted  to  a  little  over  a  thousand  dollars  at  the  time 
he  met  her.  She  remembered  with  a  pang  that  he  had 
insisted  on  spending  most  of  his  salary  on  giving  her 
pleasure  after  she  had  come  to  New  York.  It  was  pos- 
sible, after  their  rupture,  that  he  had  resumed  his  frugal 
habits. 

His  bank  book  showed  credits  in  round  figures 
amounting  to  eleven  hundred  dollars.  Drawn  against 
this  were  the  three  hundred  dollars  he  had  paid  the 
hospital  in  advance,  and  an  earlier  amount  of  eight  hun- 
dred dollars.  The  balance  remaining  in  the  bank  was  a 
mere  bagatelle,  five  or  six  dollars,  which  he  had  allowed 
to  remain  in  his  name  with  the  evident  intention  of  not 
discontinuing  the  account. 

The  item  of  eight  hundred  dollars  fascinated  Betty, 
She  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  business-like  figures 
as  if  some  occult  power  dwelt  in  them,  to  admit  her  to 
some  carefully  guarded,  but  not  disgraceful  secret  of 
Dicky's  soul.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  to  look  at 
the  date.  It  was  August  fourteenth.  She  had  come  to 
New  York  the  following  week.  What  did  it  mean? 
Like  a  flash,  a  suspicion  swept  across  her  mind.  Noise- 
lessly she  crept  from  Dick's  room  and  entered  her  own, 
and  now  she  stood  in  speechless  consternation  because  of 
her  own  stupid  blindness.  Dicky's  room  was  shabby 
and  threadbare — the  furniture  was  a  medley  of  chairs, 


354?         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

an  odd  wash-stand,  an  odd  bureau  and  a  bed.  No  two 
pieces  in  the  room  matched,  except  that  one  chair  and 
the  wash-stand  were  black  walnut.  Mrs.  Presbey's  room 
was  similarly  furnished.  Her  room  alone  was  in  fault- 
less taste — each  piece  of  furniture,  even  the  Davenport, 
was  of  Circassian  walnut,  a  wood  which  had  come  into 
general  use  for  furniture  purposes  only  within  the  last 
half  decade.  And  the  carpet  and  wallpaper  harmonized 
perfectly  with  the  furniture. 

She  ran  downstairs  and  burst  upon  Mrs.  Presbey, 
paring  peaches  to  be  preserved. 

"Mrs.  Presbey,"  she  demanded,  "did  Dick  pay  for  the 
furniture  in  my  room?" 

"I  promised  not  to  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Presbey  said, 
defensively. 

Betty  held  up  the  bank  book  for  the  landlady  to  see. 
Gone  was  the  reticence  as  to  Dicky's  affairs  and  fine 
courtesy  to  keep  even  herself  from  penetrating  into  them 
too  intimately. 

"He  has  beggared  himself  for  me,"  she  cried,  excitedly. 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Presbey,  he  has  beggared  himself  for  me ! 
Between  us  we  have  seventy-five  dollars  in  the  world. 
And  he  has  got  to  go  away,  for  months — what  shall  I 
do?  What  in  all  the  world  will  I  do?" 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  and  looked  at 
Mrs.  Presbey  with  terror-stricken,  preternaturally  bright 
eyes. 

Mrs.  Presbey  dropped  her  hands,  with  a  half-pared 
peach  in  one  and  a  paring  knife  in  the  other,  into  the 
bowl  of  peaches  in  her  lap. 

"I've  expected  this  right  along,"  she  said.  "I  tried  to 
take  up  a  second  mortgage  on  the  house,  in  order  to 
have  the  ready  cash  for  you.  But  I  couldn't  get  any  one 
to  take  a  second  mortgage.  All  I  have  is  a  couple  of 
hundred — you're  welcome  to  that — if  it's  enough." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         355 

""i 
Betty  jumped  up,  and,  following  a  sudden  impulse, 

threw  her  arms  around  the  old  lady's  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"God  bless  you,"  she  said.  "I  wouldn't  touch  your 
money.  I — I  have  some  wealthy  friends.  Some  one  will 
help  me  out." 

She  went  downtown  immediately  afterwards  to 
Mr.  Reynolds'  office.  She  had  not  heard  from  Louise 
for  over  six  weeks,  but  she  was  certain  that  Mr.  Rey- 
nolds, whose  paternal  kindness  had  touched  her  so 
deeply,  would  lend  her  what  money  she  needed.  She 
was  told  by  his  secretary,  an  impertinent,  stand-offish, 
important  young  man  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reynolds  were 
both  abroad. 

"Will  you  please  give  me  his  address?"  Betty  said, 
couching  a  request  in  form  of  a  question,  as  is  the  habit 
in  New  York.  She  was  amazed  to  hear  the  important 
young  man  reply  vigorously : 

"Certainly  not." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  innocently. 

"I'm  not  permitted  to  give  his  address  to  every  Tom, 
Dick  or  Harry  who  happens  to  ask  for  it." 

Betty  flushed  painfully,  as  she  said,  indignantly: 

"I  am  not  every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry.  I'm  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  his  daughter,  Miss  Louise." 

"Then,  why  don't  you  ask  her  for  her  parents'  ad- 
dress?" parried  the  young  man,  showing  huge  satisfac- 
tion in  his  own  adroitness. 

Betty  choked  back  her  anger. 

"Is  she  still  out  West?" 

The  important  young  man  laughed.  "Really,"  he  said, 
"I  fancy  that  you,  an  intimate  friend  of  Miss  Louise's, 
are  surely  in  a  much  better  position  to  guess  at  her 
present  whereabouts  than  I,  who  am  merely  an  employee 
of  her  father's." 

Still  Betty  persisted. 


356         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Won't  you  at  least  tell  me,"  she  begged,  "whether 
Mr.  Reynolds  is  at  Karlsbad  or  Bad  Nauheim?" 

"At  neither  place,"  replied  the  young  man,  contemptu- 
ously, and,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  walked  away. 
Ashamed,  humiliated,  with  a  dull,  impotent  anger  burn- 
ing in  her  heart,  Betty  followed  him.  "If  you  knew  how 
urgent  this  business  is,"  she  said,  "you  would  not  refuse 
Mr.  Reynolds'  address." 

"Urgent  for  yourself,"  said  the  young  man,  disdain- 
fully, "I  have  no  doubt  it  is.  But  I  am  here  to  take  care 
of  business  which  is  urgent  for  Mr.  Reynolds,  and  no 
one  else."  And  walking  into  the  private  office,  he 
slammed  the  door  in  Betty's  face. 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  most  humiliating  experience 
through  which  Betty  had  ever  gone.  She  could  barely 
keep  from  crying,  as  she  walked  through  the  long  store, 
and  out  into  the  street.  How  bitterly  she  regretted  not 
having  accepted  the  check  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars which  Mr.  Reynolds  had  offered  her ! 

Mr.  Reynolds'  store  was  located  on  Vesey  street,  and 
Betty  walked  eastward  until  she  reached  Broadway. 
Finding  a  public  telephone  booth  in  a  drug  store,  she 
called  up  Penascapet  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  Louise 
Reynolds  was  there.  Louise  was  not  there,  and  no  one 
knew  where  she  was. 

Next  Betty  went  to  Madame  Hudrazzini's  hotel  apart- 
ment. The  famous  soprano  had  not  communicated  with 
Betty  on  her  return  from  Boston,  and  Betty  entertained 
a  fleeting  hope  that  she  might  still  be  in  New  York,  but 
she  was  informed  by  a  dapper,  polite  young  clerk  at  the 
hotel  that  Madame  Hudrazzini  had  left  for  Europe  a  day 
after  her  return  from  the  Bay  State.  He  looked  at 
Betty,  questioningly. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name  ?"  he  asked. 

Betty  gave  it. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         357 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Madame  Hudrazzini." 
He  opened  a  drawer — hurriedly  searched  through  a  pack- 
age of  letters,  found  the  one  he  was  looking  for  and 
handed  it  to  Betty. 

"Madame  forgot  to  put  down  your  street  address," 
he  said.  "She  gave  it  to  me  to  post  five  minutes  before 
leaving  the  hotel.  I  kept  it,  pending  her  return  in  the 
autumn." 

Betty  thanked  him,  tore  open  the  envelope  and  glanced 
over  the  letter.  It  was  a  brief  note,  telling  Betty  that 
owing  to  her  brief  stay  in  New  York,  she  was  unable 
to  look  up  her  dearest,  most  cherished  and  beloved  young 
friend.  She  closed  by  enjoining  Betty  to  "make  up" 
with  Richard. 

It  was  three  o'clock  by  this  time,  and  the  sun's  torrid 
heat  had  the  effect  of  a  burning  glass.  The  asphalt  on 
Fifth  avenue  was  a  thick,  mushy  paste,  and  Betty's  head 
felt  as  if  it  were  clamped  in  a  steel  vise.  She  remem- 
bered that  she  had  tasted  neither  food  nor  drink  since 
seven  o'clock  that  morning,  but  the  mere  notion  of  eating 
nauseated  her.  Hailing  a  stage,  she  got  into  it  to  escape 
from  the  intolerable  heat  beating  upon  the  pavements 
without,  although  Telfer's  was  but  three  blocks  below. 
Telfer's  was  her  last  hope. 

At  any  other  time,  Betty  would  have  endured  agonies 
of  apprehension  at  the  thought  of  meeting  Miss  Sharpe 
again.  To-day,  steeped  in  utter  misery  and  soul  wretch- 
edness, she  gave  neither  Miss  Sharpe  nor  Miss  Connors 
a  thought.  She  had  hardly  entered  the  store,  however, 
when  the  gallery  goddesses  as  well  as  the  other 
clerks  gathered  about  her  with  every  sign  of  friendly 
welcome. 

A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  she  was  able  to  disen- 
tangle herself  from  the  impromptu  reception  given  her. 
Making  her  escape  at  last,  she  went  to  Mr.  Hoffman  and 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

briefly  told  him  the  financial  difficulty  in  which  she  was 
placed. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Miss  Garside,"  said  Hoffman, 
"the  old  man's  orders  were  to  take  Richard  off  the  pay- 
roll after  two  weeks.  He  is  cruising  on  Markheim's 
private  yacht  up  Norway  or  Sweden  way,  and  there  is 
no  possibility  of  reaching  him.  They  haven't  a  wireless 
on  board." 

"When  does  he  get  back?" 

"Not  before  October.  No  address  was  given  before 
then.  He's  under  the  doctor's  orders  to  cut  out  all  busi- 
ness until  then,  and  he  is  doing  it  with  a  vengeance." 

"But  why  was  Richard  dropped  from  the  payroll?" 
Betty  asked.  "Mr.  Telfer  always  seemed  uncommonly 
fond  of  Richard,  and  he  has  kept  others,  clerks  with 
whom  he  never  came  in  contact  personally,  and  who  had 
been  in  his  employ  only  a  few  weeks  when  they  fell  ill, 
on  the  payroll  for  two  or  three  months." 

The  cashier  lowered  his  eyes  and  did  not  reply. 

"Mr.  Hoffman,"  Betty  said,  speaking  with  dignified 
insistence,  "can't  you  take  the  responsibility  of  advanc- 
ing me  a  few  hundred  dollars?  I'll  give  you  my  note." 

"Can't  do  it." 

"I  am  sure,  if  Mr.  Telfer  knew  the  circumstances,  he 
would  not  refuse  to  help  Richard." 

"I  don't  think  so  myself,"  .said  the  cashier,  dubiously. 
Betty  thought  he  was  weakening. 

"Can't  you  give  me  an  advance — a  loan?" 

"I  cannot,  Miss  Garside.  Really,  I  cannot.  It 
wouldn't  be  honest,  you  know." 

"But  you  yourself  think  Mr.  Telfer  would  be  satis- 
fied to  have  you  do  it,"  Betty  implored. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  for  sure.  You  see,  the  truth  is, 
Mr.  Telfer  was  a  little  down  on  Richard  lately." 

"Why?    What  happened?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         359 

"Oh,  no  business  matter,"  Hoffman  flashed  a  quick 
glance  at  Betty.  "I  might  as  well  be  frank.  When  he 
found  out  why  you  quit,  he  was  as  mad  as  a  hatter. 
Pryce  was  fool  enough  to  tell  him.  Why,  he  all  but 
fired  Pryce,  he  was  so  mad.  You  see — Mr.  Telfer  thinks 
a  good  deal  of  you  in  every  way." 

Betty  was  quick  to  see  her  advantage  and  to  use  it. 

"Then,  if  Mr.  Telfer  thinks  a  lot  of  me,"  she  said, 
eagerly,  "surely,  knowing  my  entire  heart  is  set  on 
saving  Dick's  life,  for  that  is  what  it  amounts  to — he 
wouldn't  refuse." 

Hoffman  braced  himself  visibly  against  this  unanswer- 
able feminine  logic. 

"I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  let  you  have  the  money  my- 
self, Miss  Garside,"  he  said.  "But  I  have  been  a  d.  f.  and 
gambled  in  stocks,  and  my  bank  account  is  wiped  out. 
It  stands  at  zero.  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

Betty  stood,  hands  clasped  across  her  bosom,  staring 
at  Hoffman's  busy-looking  desk  with  unseeing  eyes. 
A  sound,  a  cross  between  an  ejaculation  and  a  smacking 
of  the  lips,  made  her  look  up. 

"Look  here,"  Hoffman  spoke,  excitedly,  "perhaps  you 
can  get  a  satisfactory  answer  from  Archie." 

"Archie  ?    Is  Archie  in  town  ?" 

"He  is  coming  in  to-day.  He  will  be  here  in  a  few 
minutes.  He  wants  to  get  some  documents  I  am  keep- 
ing in  the  safe  for  him.  He  has  actually  had  to  marry 
one  of  the  three — have  you  heard?" 

"I  have  read  no  papers  recently,"  Betty  answered, 
evasively. 

"Well,  the  one  he  married,  it  appears,  has  a  little  for- 
tune of  her  own.  Trust  Archie  to  know  what  side  his 
bread  is  buttered  on." 

"But  has  Archie  the  right  any  more  than  you  to  let  me 
have  the  money?" 


360         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Hoffman  laughed. 

"After  all,  he  is  the  boss's  son — and  if  he  gives  me  an 
order  in  writing,  so  that  he  cannot  crawl  out  of  the 
transaction  afterwards,  who  am  I  to  refuse  his  orders? 
You  see,  Mr.  Telfer  always  allows  Archie  the  privilege 
of  drawing  on  him  for  about  five  thousand  a  year.  That's 
a  state  secret,  of  course,  so  mum  is  the  word.  Frequently 
he  runs  up  to  seven  thousand.  He's  only  got  six  thou- 
sand so  far  this  year,  so,  if  Mr.  Telfer  doesn't  approve, 
he'll  make  me  debit  Archie's  account  with  the  amount  he 
gives  you.  See?  Oh,  they  have  fine  scenes  in  the  little 
office  in  the  rear,  father  and  son  have.  But  they  always 
close  both  doors." 

Betty  said  nothing.  Innate  tact  suggested  to  her  the 
bad  taste  of  discussing  derogatively  a  man  of  whom  she 
was  about  to  ask  a  favor. 

She  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  it  was  not  just  the 
thing  to  ask  Archie  to  help  her.  And  yet,  to  whom 
was  she  to  turn?  And  if  Hoffman  was  willing  to  take 
Archie's  signature  for  a  loan  to  be  made  to  herself,  it 
was,  after  all,  Hoffman's  business  and  not  hers.  The 
money  belonged  to  Telfer,  senior,  even  if  Telfer,  junior, 
gave  an  order  for  it. 

She  had  not  waited  ten  minutes,  when  Archie  swung 
into  the  room,  looking  handsomer  and  more  modish  and 
more  splendidly  groomed  than  ever.  He  nodded  con- 
descendingly in  Hoffman's  direction  and  went  right  to 
his  father's  rooms. 

"He  didn't  see  you,"  Hoffman  said  to  Betty.  "Will 
you  go  right  after  him  and  tackle  him,  or  do  you  want  me 
to  talk  for  you  ?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Betty,  rising.  "Perhaps  I  had  better 
'tackle  him'  myself." 

As  she  was  about  to  enter  the  room,  Archie  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         361 

"What  an  unexpected  pleasure!"  He  performed  an 
elaborate  handshake  simultaneously  with  an  elaborate 
lifting  of  the  hat,  which  he  held  conspicuously  aloft 
during  the  ceremonious  handshake.  "Won't  you  come 
in?  I  trust  I  am  not  presuming  unduly  when  I  ask 
whether  or  not  you  came  to  see  me,  Miss  Absolute 
Zero?" 

They  both  laughed,  remembering  that  Archie  had  once 
said  Betty  would  make  excellent  company  on  a  sizzling 
summer's  day. 

"I  assure  you  I  feel  like  anything  rather  than  absolute 
zero  to-day,"  Betty  said,  still  smiling.  Archie  Telfer's 
airy  nonsense  always  acted  upon  her  nerves  like  a  sooth- 
ing lotion. 

"What?  You  amaze  me!  Is  the  Great  Ice  Period 
about  to  be  terminated  by  this  ungodly  heat  with  which 
we  are  visited  ?  Joking  aside,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You 
do  not  look  quite  yourself." 

"I'm  not  quite  myself,  Mr.  Telfer.  I'm  in  serious 
trouble." 

The  smile  of  well-bred  good-fellowship  was  wiped 
away  from  Archie's  mobile  features.  A  look  of  grave 
and  sincere  concern  succeeded. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  indeed !  Won't  you  come  in  ?  Per- 
haps I  can  serve  you." 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her  in  his  best  Chesterfield- 
ian  manner,  and,  after  entering  himself,  drew  up  a  chair 
for  her  with  that  graceful  haste  which  a  certain  type 
of  stage-gentleman  invariably  employs  in  doing  a  woman 
a  service.  He  waited  until  she  was  seated,  and  then  sat 
down  himself.  His  entire  manner  was  charming,  ingra- 
tiating. Betty  had  never  liked  him  better  than  at  this 
moment ;  she  remembered  the  reputation  he  had  and  the 
unkind  things  Dick  had  said  of  him  and  the  impolite  epi- 
thets he  had  bestowed  upon  him.  It  seemed  odd  that  for 


362         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Richard's  sake,  she  was  about  to  place  herself  under  deep 
and  lasting  obligations  to  this  man. 

"Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  Archie  asked,  with  a 
manner  which,  had  it  been  sincere,  would  have  been 
absolutely  charming.  "Command  me — won't  you?" 

"Dick  has  been  awfully  sick.    Typhoid." 

Archie's  countenance  expressed  alarm  and  concern. 

"And,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,"  she  continued,  "my 
bank  account  and  Richard's  as  well  have  declined  to 
approximately  nothing.  Your  father,  Mr.  Telfer,  had 
Richard  dropped  from  the  payroll  after  two  weeks." 

"What  a  shame  of  my  father  to  do  that!" 

Betty's  color  came  and  went  with  the  fleetness  of  a 
1  cloud  tossed  across  the  heavens  by  a  stormy  wind. 

"I  do  not  know  where  to  turn.  I  have  got  to  get 
Richard  out  of  the  city,  if  he  is  to  live,  and  I  have  no 
money.  Mr.  Hoffman  says  he  will  let  me  have  three 
or  four  hundred  dollars,  if  you  say  so." 

"That's  very  nice  of  Mr.  Hoffman — that's  downright 
good  of  Mr.  Hoffman,  thoughtful  fellow !  But  how  can 
I  ?  I've  never  meddled  with  my  father's  business  affairs. 
He  might  resent  my  doing  so,  now.  And,  frankly,  I'm 
not  in  position  at  the  present  moment  to  antagonize  him." 

"I  see,"  Betty's  tone  was  illustrative  of  her  decline  of 
hope. 

"However,  I  will  be  glad  to  help  you  out  personally." 

Betty  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"I  cannot  expect  you  to  do  that,  Mr.  Telfer,  and  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  accept  a  loan  from  you." 

"Nonsense,  you  are  merely  a  proxy.  It  is  Richard 
to  whom  I  am  lending — how  much  did  you  say  ?" 

"Would  three  hundred  be  too  much?" 

"Three  hundred?  That  won't  carry  you  very  far. 
Let  us  say  six  hundred." 

Archie  produced  a  pocket  check-book  and  a  fountain- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         363 

pen  and  began  writing  industriously.  While  he  wrote,  he 
talked.  His  gestures  reminded  Betty  of  a  scene  in  "The 
Sun-God,"  in  which  Archie's  part  called  for  his  writing 
a  letter  on  the  stage.  Archie  Telfer's  grace  of  manner 
and  elusive  charm  were  as  extreme  off  the  stage  as  on. 

"Richard  is  a  fine  fellow — takes  himself  a  bit  seri- 
ously, art  is  a  goddess  to  him,  not  a  profession — always 
disliked  me  a  little — I'm  afraid  he  disapproves  of  me 
for  not  spelling  'drammer'  with  a  capital  D." 

The  check  was  written  out,  the  signature  affixed. 
'Archie  blotted  it,  tore  it  from  the  stub.  He  handed  it  to 
Betty,  then  suddenly  drew  it  back. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  right  to  give  you  a 
check.  Just  fancy,  a  man  with  my  reputation !  I  owe  it 
to  a  charming  girl  like  yourself  to  protect  her  name. 
No,  decidedly,  I  must  not  give  you  a  check.  That  mon- 
key of  a  valet  of  mine — confound  the  fellow — always 
looks  through  my  checks  when  they  come  back  from  the 
bank,  and  he's  a  sieve,  a  perfect  sieve.  Let  me  see — 
what's  to  be  done !" 

He  tore  up  the  check  and  dropped  its  infinitesimal 
remains  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  Then  he  took  out 
his  wallet  and  counted  the  bills  contained  in  it. 

"A  miserable  fifty,"  he  said,  "is  all  I  have  with  me. 
Miss  Garside,  I  am  compelled  to  ask  you  to  do  something 
which  I  dislike  extremely  to  ask.  I  have  some  business 
downtown,  but  will  be  at  my  hotel  at  six  o'clock.  At 
eight  I  have  to  make  the  Sag  Harbor  train.  Will  you 
come  up  to  my  hotel,  and  wait  for  me  in  the  lobby? 
We'll  find  some  unobserved  corner  in  which  I  can  hand 
you  the  money.  They  will  cash  my  check  for  me  in  the 
office  of  the  hotel." 

"Can't  Mr.  Hoffman  cash  it  for  you  ?"  Betty  inquired. 

"I  doubt  it — at  this  hour — however,  I  will  see."  It 
did  not  occur  to  Betty  that  Archie  was  doing  a  singular 


364          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

thing  in  going  out  to  see  Hoffman,  instead  of  ringing  for 
a  boy  and  telling  him  to  ask  Mr.  Hoffman  to  step  in  to 
see  him.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her  that  Archie  might 
merely  walk  out  of  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  walk  back  again  without  having 
seen  Hoffman.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her  that  the  simplest 
way  of  letting  her  have  the  money  would  be  for  Archie 
to  give  Hoffman  a  check  made  payable  to  cash,  with 
instructions  that  he  was  to  pay  the  money  to  Betty  the 
next  morning,  as  soon  as  the  banks  were  open. 

When  Archie  came  back  into  the  room,  he  said,  in 
a  tone  which  commiserated  the  import  of  his  words : 

"Hoffman  cannot  cash  it.  I'm  awfully  sorry  that  I 
have  to  put  you  out  to  the  extent  of  coming  up  to  my 
hotel." 

His  manner,  more  than  the  commonplace  words,  con- 
veyed unfathomable  depths  of  feeling.  Betty's  heart 
warmed  to  him  more  and  more. 

"You're  not  going  to  embarrass  me  by  apologizing  to 
me  in  addition  to  doing  me  this  very  great  kindness, 
Mr.  Telfer?" 

He  replied  with  a  platitude,  a  platitude  which,  to  a 
girl  of  small  experience  in  the  ways  of  men,  seemed  a 
further  indication  of  true  friendship.  Every  caution 
against  Archie  dinned  uninterruptedly  into  her  ears  by 
Richard  was  relegated  to  oblivion.  If  anything,  she  was 
a  little  ashamed  that  the  man  whom  Richard  had  never 
referred  to  except  in  terms  of  contempt  and  opprobrium 
was  showing  her  such  unexampled  and  delicate  kindness. 

They  were  standing  opposite  each  other,  preparatory 
to  her  leave-taking.  Impetuously  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  him  with  a  gesture  half-shy,  half-intimate. 

"Mr.  Telfer,"  she  said,  "you  cannot  know  how  much 
your  kindness  means  to  me.  I — I  had  been  elsewhere 
before  I  came  here — and  I  was  almost  in  despair.  I 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         365 

thank  you  more  than  I  can  say."  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  continued,  bravely:  "It  is  good  to  know  that 
one  has  such  a  friend.  I  hope  some  time,  in  some  way, 
to  be  able  to  show  my  gratitude."  And  again  the  color 
ebbed  and  flowed  on  her  cheek  like  clouds  on  a  wind- 
blown April  day. 

He  took  the  hand  she  offered  him  so  charmingly.  He 
shook  off  his  grandiose,  impressive  manner  and  became 
nobly  straightforward — exquisitely  simple.  He  did  not 
relinquish  her  hand  immediately,  but  for  a  moment 
placed  his  left  hand  over  it  gently,  caressingly.  He 
immediately  released  it,  however,  before  she  had  time 
to  become  confused  or  embarrassed  and  continued, 
reassuringly : 

"I  want  you  to  feel  always  that  I  am  your  friend." 

It  was  half-past  four  when  Betty  left  Telfer's  shop. 
She  had  barely  time  to  go  home  and  be  at  Archie's  hotel 
by  six  o'clock,  so  she  walked  across  to  Union  Square 
and  sat  on  a  bench  near  the  red  geraniums.  A  song  of 
thanksgiving  filled  her  heart.  It  was  so  poignantly  sweet 
that  she  forgot  her  fatigue  and  her  hunger.  Even  the 
heat  had  dwindled  into  a  negligible  fact  before  the  divine 
certainty  that  she  was  to  have  the  wherewithal  for 
taking  Dick  away. 

Punctually  at  six  she  was  in  the  lobby,  and  Archie, 
twirling  a  stick,  came  walking  through  a  few  moments 
later.  He  bowed  quietly  when  he  saw  her — the  most  in- 
conspicuous bow  he  had  ever  given  her,  and  pretended 
to  great  surprise.  In  view  of  his  remarks  of  the  after- 
noon to  her,  she  gathered  that  he  pretended  to  be  sur- 
prised at  seeing  her  so  that  no  one  should  guess  they 
were  meeting  by  appointment.  The  conviction  which 
had  been  born  in  her  that  afternoon,  that  his  reputation 
was  much  worse  than  himself,  was  fortified  and  strength- 
ened by  this  new  courtesy.  Surely  no  man  could  have 


366         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

been  more  thoughtful,  more  gentlemanly — not  even  her 
Dick. 

"Let's  find  a  sequestered  nook,"  he  said,  in  an  under- 
tone, and  Betty  followed  whither  he  led.  But  they  came 
upon  no  "sequestered  nooks."  Every  room  they  entered, 
every  corridor  they  turned  into,  was  occupied.  Archie's 
brows  contracted  in  displeasure.  He  said  "too  bad," 
"exasperating,"  "very  unpleasant,"  and  walked  on  and 
on,  carefully  avoiding  one  or  two  tiny  parlors  reserved 
for  guests  of  the  hotel,  of  which,  on  application,  he 
might  have  obtained  solitary  occupation. 

"I'm  afraid  I  will  have  to  ask  you  to  come  up  to  my 
rooms?  Do  you  mind?  I  have  a  suite,  you  know — a 
parlor  attached.  I  cannot  possibly  hand  you  a  roll  of 
bills  here." 

For  one  moment  Betty's  heart  misgave  her.  But  a 
year  of  business  life  had  bevelled  off  some  of  the  cast- 
iron  rules  with  which  every  gently  nurtured  girl  enters 
life.  She  knew  that  there  are  times  when  a  woman  who 
is  fighting  her  own  battle  in  the  world  is  frequently 
placed  in  a  singular  position,  a  position  the  reverse  of 
conventional.  And  that,  she  assured  herself,  was  all 
there  was  to  the  situation  in  which  she  was  now  placed. 
Archie  Telfer  was  put  upon  a  little  pinnacle  in  her  es- 
teem. Archie  Telfer  was  a  much  maligned  man.  Archie 
Telfer  was  a  gentleman.  And  Archie  Telfer  was  a 
friend. 

She  nodded  in  acquiescence  of  his  suggestion.  In  the 
elevator,  a  sudden  spasm  of  fear  lighted  a  blaze  in  her 
soul,  and  she  wished  herself  safely  out  of  the  hotel.  She 
quieted  herself  with  the  reflection  that  "no  man  would 
dare  .  .  ." 

They  walked  through  a  dimly  lit,  Holland  shrouded 
corridor,  over  inch-thick  carpets,  like  balsam  to  tired  feet. 
Archie's  rooms  opened  out  on  a  courtyard  in  which  a 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         367 

fountain  gurgled  gently  among  palms  and  rubber-trees. 
He  placed  a  chair  for  her  at  the  open  window,  then,  as 
some  one  passed  the  door,  went  and  closed  it.  In  a  busi- 
ness-like way  he  pulled  the  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket, 
counted  them  out  to  Betty  upon  a  small  table  that  stood 
between  them,  and  pushed  them  toward  her.  Betty  gath- 
ered up  the  money,  and  placed  it  in  her  reticule. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  sign  a  note,  or  a  receipt,  or 
something?"  she  asked. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Archie  Telfer,  in  his  biggest,  most 
masculine  way.  "Nonsense." 

Betty  rose. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  think  of  saying  seems  trite  and 
commonplace,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  grateful,  intensely 
grateful.  I  only  wish  there  was  some  way  of  showing 
my  gratitude.  I  wish  that  very  earnestly." 

Archie  Telfer  walked  around  the  small  table  and  stood 
beside  her.  He  put  out  both  his  hands.  Shifting  the 
reticule  over  her  wrist,  she  placed  her  hands  in  his,  as 
he  invited  her  to  do,  with  a  little,  timid  gesture  meant 
to  express  her  thankfulness.  He  clasped  her  hands 
firmly,  warmly,  and  she  noted,  with  a  little  start,  how  hot 
and  dry  were  his  palms,  for  she  had  removed  her  gloves 
to  count  the  money,  and  when  she  looked  up  at  his  face 
she  saw  that  in  his  eyes  was  a  smouldering,  glimmering 
light.  She  became  terribly  frightened  in  an  instant — 
she  wanted  to  say  something,  anything  to  break  the  op- 
pressive silence  that  suddenly  filled  the  room  and  beat 
between  them  like  the  fluttering  wings  of  a  bird,  and 
seemed  to  link  her  and  Archie  together  as  with  a  tangible 
chain.  She  stammered,  confusedly: 

"You  don't  know  what  I've  been  through  to-day." 

Suddenly  her  tears  began  to  flow.  Lack  of  food, 
fatigue,  the  nervous  strain  she  had  been  subjected  to  all 
day,  the  frightful  heat,  broke  down  her  self-control. 


368         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Her  tears  flowed  thick  and  fast.  She  wanted  to  reach 
for  her  handkerchief  to  staunch  them,  but  Archie  had 
not  yet  released  her  hands.  He  held  them  in  his  burning 
palms,  and  though  she  tried  to  disengage  them,  she  did 
not  succeed.  She  told  herself  that  she  had  been  clumsy, 
had  not  made  him  understand  that  she  wanted  to  free 
her  hands,  and  she  tried  again,  with  no  better  success. 

"I  want  to  get  my  handkerchief,"  she  sobbed. 

"Poor  little  girl,  poor  little  girl." 

Archie's  voice  was  alluringly  caressing.  Suddenly  she 
felt  her  hands  released  and  his  voice  said,  breathlessly, 
very  near  her  face :  "I  will  dry  your  tears  for  you," 
and  then,  with  incredible  swiftness,  before  she  realized 
what  was  happening,  he  had  folded  her  in  his  arms  and 
was  raining  kisses  upon  her  eyes  and  cheek. 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go !"  she  cried. 

She  struggled,  but  her  struggles  were  no  more  effect- 
ual than  the  struggles  of  a  rabbit  caught  in  a  steel  trap. 
She  found  herself  enveloped  as  in  steel  sheeting.  Twist- 
ing, twirling,  she  tried  to  escape  from  him,  and  to  escape 
from  his  voracious  mouth,  she  threw  her  face  forward 
and  backward,  but  he  contrived  to  hold  even  her  head  in 
his  embrace,  so  that  he  might  kiss  her  uninterruptedly. 
He  did  not  kiss  her  roughly.  Memory  harked  back  to 
the  cruel  kisses  Dick  had  showered  upon  her  on  one  or 
two  occasions,  kisses  that  hurt  because  they  were  so 
rough.  Archie  Telfer  kissed  her  slowly,  gently,  softly, 
not  roughly,  not  brutally. 

"Your  poor  little  thing,"  he  whispered,  "let  me  kiss 
away  your  tears,  though  you  are  shedding  them  for  an- 
other man.  Betty,  Betty,  I  love  you,  I  adore  you.  I  did 
not  mean  to  tell  you — but  I  could  not  help  myself,  my 
little  darling." 

She  had  stopped  struggling  at  last,  and  he  thought 
that  his  kisses,  the  pressure  of  arms  and  hands  upon  her 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         369 

limp  body  were  subjugating  her.  In  reality,  she  was 
merely  husbanding  her  strength  to  take  advantage  of  an 
unguarded  moment  in  which  to  break  away  from  his 
hold. 

Assured  of  victory,  as  he  thought,  he  kissed  her  more 
ardently.  She  contrived  to  loosen  her  right  arm  from 
his  grip,  and,  with  clenched  fist,  she  struck  blindly,  furi- 
ously at  his  face.  The  impact  and  suddenness  of  the 
blow,  which  had  happened  to  land  upon  the  beautiful 
Greek  nose  of  which  the  papers  made  so  much,  sent  him 
staggering  away  from  her  with  a  cry  of  pain. 

With  rare  self-possession,  Betty  glanced  toward  the 
table  for  a  possible  article  of  defense.  She  caught  up  a 
match-receiver  of  heavy,  chased  silver,  freshly  filled 
with  matches.  It  made  a  formidable  projectile  and  the 
thought  flashed  into  Betty's  brain  that  it  might  be  made 
to  do  splendid  protective  service  in  another  respect. 

Clutching  the  match-receiver  in  one  hand,  she  tugged 
furiously  at  the  clasp  of  her  reticule.  It  flew  open. 
Pulling  out  the  roll  of  bills  which  Archie  had  handed 
her,  she  flung  it  at  his  feet. 

"There  is  your  money,"  she  said,  quietly,  "now  please 
let  me  go." 

"You're  not  going  to  refuse  the  loan  because — because 
my  love  got  the  better  of  my  discretion?"  He  was 
standing  between  her  and  the  door,  and  now  made  one 
step  in  her  direction. 

"Don't  you  dare  come  near  me!"  Menacingly,  she 
held  up  the  heavy  receiver.  "I  wish  to  leave  your  rooms, 
Mr.  Telfer.  Kindly  step  aside  so  I  can  get  to  the  door." 

"Betty — Miss  Garside,  listen  to  me.  I  was  mad,  quite 
mad  about  you.  I've  been  in  love  with  you  ever  since  I 
met  you  the  first  time.  I  knew  I  had  no  chance  with 
you,  because  you  loved  Pryce,  but  that  did  not  kill  my 
infatuation.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Pryce,  I  would  have 


370         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

offered  to  marry  you.  Upon  my  word,  I  would  have 
offered  you  marriage." 

"Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure." 

"Offered  you  marriage ?  Is  that  what  I  said?  I  would 
have  begged  you  to  marry  me.  Betty,  I've  been  engi- 
neered into  a  marriage,  but,  happily,  Reno  is  still  on  the 
map.  Will  you  marry  me  after  I  get  a  divorce?" 

"Your  question  is  a  new  insult.  Please  get  out  of  my 
way.  I  want  to  leave  this  room." 

"Listen  to  me  only  for  a  minute,"  he  implored,  "take 
the  money,  at  least,  won't  you?" 

"Sell  myself  for  money?  Not  even  for  Dick's  sake, 
Mr.  Telfer." 

"No,  no,  heaven  is  my  witness,"  the  handsome  face  was 
set  to  a  pattern  which  was  a  model  of  contrition — "that, 
that  was  not  in  my  mind.  Haven't  I  just  told  you  the 
reason  why  I  never  even  told  you  that  I  was  in  love  with 
you  ?  I  promised  you  a  loan  of  that  money  without  any 
return — that  never  entered  my  head  for  a  moment.  But 
— you  yourself  spoke  of  gratitude  this  afternoon,  and 
just  now,  again,  I  thought  it  was  an  intimation  that  you 
had  guessed  my  sentiments  for  you,  and  that  out  of 
sheer  kindness,  pity,  compassion  for  my  suffering,  out  of 
gratitude  for  relieving  your  mental  anguish,  you  had 
determined  to  ameliorate  my  suffering  in  return." 

Betty  was  so  shocked  that  she  could  only  gasp  out, 
"Mr.  Telfer!" 

"If  I  misunderstood  you  or  attached  too  subtle  a 
meaning  to  your  words,  I  can  only  beg  of  you  to  forgive 
my  indiscretion,  and  to  take  the  money — I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  your  worrying  yourself  sick  about  a  paltry 
sum  of  money  while  I  have  more  than  I  need.  Please, 
please,  dear  Miss  Betty,  take  the  money,  and  forget 
the  unpleasant  scene  of  which  I  unhappily  was  the 
author." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         871 

He  took  another  step  in  Betty's  direction. 

"Will  you  accept  the  money?"  he  asked,  ingratiatingly. 

"If  you  come  near  me,"  Betty  said,  "I  will  set  the  cur- 
tains on  fire.  I  have  the  matches  in  my  hand,  and  I 
can  easily  do  it  before  you  reach  me.  I  think  you  will 
then  open  the  door  quickly  enough."  Terror  and  deadly 
fear  gave  her  the  resolution  she  ordinarily  lacked. 

Archie  stood  stock-still.  His  face  was  a  study.  Out- 
raged innocence,  kindly  motives  misunderstood  played 
over  his  handsome  face  in  quick,  seemingly  pained  suc- 
cession. 

"How  you  misunderstood  me,"  he  said,  in  the  tone 
which,  as  Richard  the  Third,  he  employed  in  reading 
the  line,  "I  thank  my  God  for  my  humility." 

"I  certainly  do  not  misunderstand  you  now,"  said 
Betty.  "I  did — entirely — when  I  entered  this  room.  I 
was  filled  with  gratitude  beyond  power  of  words  to 
express.  And  you  grossly  insulted  me." 

"But  Betty,  Miss  Garside,  do  me  the  justice  to  at 
least  believe  my  explanation.  If  you  had  meant  to  make 
a  certain  sacrifice  for  me,  as  I  believed,  if  you  had  in- 
tended that  I  was  to  thus  interpret  the  wish  you  ex- 
pressed for  'some  way'  of  expressing  your  gratitude,  II 
suppose  it  would  have  behooved  me  to  act  the  part  of  a 
demi-god  and  nobly  reject  your  offer.  But  I  am  not  one 
of  the  stage-heroes  I  am  forced  to  portray.  I  am  flesh 
and  blood.  I  am  human  and  I  am  insanely  in  love  with 
you." 

"Since  you  will  not  step  aside,"  Betty  replied,  "I  am 
going  to  walk  around  you  to  the  door.  I  warn  you,  if 
you  make  one  move  to  intercept  me,  I  shall  set  fire  to 
this  room."  She  pulled  out  her  handkerchief  and  placed 
it  in  the  left  hand.  With  her  right  hand  she  extracted 
a  match  from  the  receiver  and  lit  it,  and  slowly  began 
her  march  to  the  door. 


372         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Archie  picked  up  the  roll  of  bills. 

"I  am  coming,"  he  said,  "to  put  this  roll  of  bills  in 
your  reticule." 

He  stepped  forward,  and  Betty  promptly  brought  the 
lighted  match  into  close  juxtaposition  with  her  thin 
handkerchief.  Archie  stopped  and  laughed. 

"You're  game,"  he  said,  "you  certainly  are  game. 
Don't  be  so  obstinate.  Don't  cut  off  your  nose  to  spite 
your  face.  It  was  stupid  of  me  to  misunderstand,  but  it 
was  not  an  irreparable  or  unforgivable  blunder.  I  have 
known  good  and  true  women,  out  of  gratitude  to  men 
whom  they  could  repay  in  no  other  way,  offer  that  which 
I  thought  you  offered  me.  I  didn't,  of  course,  expect 
you  to  offer  it  in  bald  words — I  merely  offered  to  make 
the  sacrifice  as  easy  for  you  as  possible." 

"You — Oh,  you  are  vile!"  said  Betty. 

"No,  Betty,  I  am  not.  If  you  had  made  a  gift  of 
yourself  to  me,  this  day  would  have  been  a  divine  and 
priceless  recollection ;  in  my  eyes,  Betty,  you  are  but  little 
lower  than  an  angel,  and  if  the  angel  had  shown  human 
compassion  for  me  she  would  have  been  an  angel  still — 
an  angel  even  more  than  before." 

Richard  the  Third,  wooing  Anne  over  the  dead  body 
of  her  husband's  father,  husband  and  father  both  mur- 
dered by  himself,  did  not  work  harder  or  more  plausibly 
at  his  task  of  blinding  virtue  than  did  Archie  Telfer. 
But  Betty  was  not  to  be  gulled  again. 

She  did  not  reply  to  his  last  speech.  She  struck  a  new 
match — the  fourth  one,  and  continued  her  roundabout 
journey  to  the  door.  Archie  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
walked  rapidly  away  in  an  opposite  direction,  to  the 
window,  and,  hands  in  trouser  pockets,  surveyed  her 
superciliously. 

"Perhaps  you  will  deign  to  stop  that  childish  by-play 
now." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         373 

Betty  had  reached  the  door.  She  turned  the  knob, 
placed  her  foot  back  of  the  door  to  keep  it  from  closing 
again.  Then  she  deposited  the  silver  match-receiver  on 
a  chair  that  was  near  enough  to  reach  easily. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me  for  just  a  moment?"  he  begged. 
"After  leaving  here,  you  may  regret  refusing  to  take 
the  money  which  I  offer  you  freely  and  unconditionally. 
If  so,  come  here  to-morrow  evening — at  the  same  time. 
I  will  be  in  my  room — the  door  will  be  open  to  admit 
you.  And  if  you  need  more  money,  say  a  thousand 
dollars,  they  are  yours." 

A  little  pale,  and  a  little  haggard,  Archie  Telfer  was 
handsomer  than  ever.  The  breeze  from  the  open  win- 
dow, playing  about  his  thin  Panama  cloth  suit,  revealed 
to  advantage  the  faultless  lines  of  his  figure.  But  he  had 
lost  control  of  his  facial  expression. 

Betty  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then, 
aghast  at  his  audacity  in  offering  her  a  larger  sum,  her 
contempt  overflowed  her  lips,  oddly  enough  in  the  same 
terms  of  revilement  which  Dick  invariably  applied  to 
Archie. 

"You  cur!"  she  said.     "You  hound!" 

And  she  had  been  simple  enough  to  believe  that  men 
"did  not  dare."  She  shivered  with  horror  as  she  real- 
ized what  a  merciful  escape  she  had  had.  Then  she  be- 
came contemplative.  She  speculated  as  to  what  there 
was  to  fear  for  a  man  of  Archie  Telfer's  type  should 
he  succeed  in  overpowering  a  girl  after  luring  her  to  his 
rooms.  The  abyss  of  impotence  which  was  irretrievably 
the  girl's  portion  in  an  affair  of  such  a  sort,  was  ghastly. 
The  chances  were  that  the  girl  would  never  speak  of  the 
degradation  she  had  suffered,  and  if  she  did — who  would 
believe  her  wholly  innocent? 

Then  the  thought  shivered  through  her  that  Dick — 
her  Dick,  might  in  some  such  way  have  overpowered  the 


374         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

girl  whom  she  knew  only  by  name.  But  her  heart  re- 
belled against  the  accusation  preferred  by  her  brain.  In 
whatever  manner  Dick  had  contrived  to  compass  his  own 
disgrace,  she  felt  sure  it  had  not  been  in  such  a  fashion. 

As  in  a  dream,  she  walked  through  the  dim  halls 
over  the  inch-thick  carpet,  into  the  elevator  and  out  into 
the  street.  As  in  a  dream,  seeing  all  things  through  a 
murky,  unclean  mist,  she  hailed  a  street-car.  Mechanic- 
ally, the  stupor  still  enfolding  her,  she  left  the  car  and 
made  her  way  home.  She  fumbled  for  her  latch-key, 
found  it,  but  lacked  the  sense  of  direction  necessary  for 
inserting  it  in  the  keyhole.  Mrs.  Presbey,  hearing  her  at 
the  door,  came  and  opened  it. 

"I've  been  worried  to  death  about  you — why,  what  has 
happened  ?  Didn't  you  succeed  ?  Are  you  ill  ?" 

Betty  opened  her  mouth,  essayed  to  speak,  and  with  a 
heartbroken  smile  on  her  lips,  crumpled  up  in  a  swoon- 
ing, forlorn  little  heap  at  Mrs.  Presbey's  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Mercifully,  physical  distress,  pain  or  fatigue,  kills 
mental  pain.  Betty  slept  soundly  through  the  night, 
after  taking  a  glass  of  warm  milk  with  sherry  and  an 
egg  beaten  into  it,  which  Mrs.  Presbey  made  her  drink 
in  bed.  She  awoke  at  five  the  next  morning  with  the 
sensation  that  an  unfulfilled  task  awaited  her.  Oddly 
enough,  along  with  the  sensation  came  a  recollection  not 
of  the  previous  day's  experience,  but  of  the  five  muti- 
lated bills  belonging  to  Earlcote  which  were  still  in  her 
possession. 

Curiously,  she  had  not  given  these  a  thought  for  weeks 
past.  Now,  the  recollection  of  possessing  them  came  as 
a  vivid  experience.  Would  Earlcote,  if  she  returned 
him  the  mutilated  bills,  be  willing  to  let  her  have  a  small 
loan?  It  was  possible  that  he  would,  since  he  had  told 
her  that  he  regretted  having  made  her  the  offer,  as  her 
voice  would  never  amount  to  anything  after  all.  She 
blushed  a  deep  red  under  the  bedclothes,  as  she  remem- 
bered the  taunt  she  had  flung  at  him  in  reply.  Would 
he  hold  that  against  her?  She  had  not  much  faith  in 
the  success  of  her  plan,  but  she  told  herself  that  she  must 
spare  no  effort,  however  wild  it  appeared,  to  obtain 
money. 

She  steeled  herself  and  went  to  Richard's  room.  He 
was  still  asleep,  and  she  knelt  at  his  bed  and  prayed 
fervently  for  courage  and  fortitude. 

"Betty!" 

Her  head,  brushing  against  his  hand,  had  awakened 
him. 

375 


876         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Betty,  you're  not  crying?" 

"No,  Dick — praying." 

"Were  you  praying  for  me?" 

"A  little  for  myself.     Dearest,  how  are  you  to-day?" 

"Fine,  Betty,  fine  as  silk,  as  Hoffman  would  say.  But 
I  am  a  little  weak  still.  Betty,  it  was  worth  being  so 
sick  to  find  out  how  dearly  you  loved  me." 

"Did  you  doubt  my  love?" 

"A  little,  dear,  just  a  little." 

"Promise  me  you  will  never  doubt  it  again,  Dick, 
not  under  any  circumstances.  I  never  doubted  yours, 
though  you  gave  me  reason  to — once." 

"Don't,"  he  said,  looking  deeply  pained.  "Please  don't 
do  that." 

She  kissed  his  cheek  and  laid  her  own  face  against  his. 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  "you're  to  get  up  to-day  and  every 
day  this  week — every  day  you  are  to  sit  up  a  little  longer 
than  the  day  before.  Doctor's  orders.  And  a  week  from 
to-day  you  and  I  are  going  to  the  country  for  a  month 
or  so." 

"A  week  from  to-day  I'll  be  going  back  to  business." 

"No,  Dicky,  you  won't." 

"Look  here,  Betty,  don't  excite  me.  I  tell  you  I  can't 
go  to  the  country.  No  cash." 

Betty  had  expected  this,  and  had  prepared  herself  to 
weave  any  required  elaborate  tissue  of  lies  in  order  to 
gain  her  point.  She,  so  truthful  and  scrupulously  honest, 
was  prepared  to  lie  to  an  unlimited  extent  to  put  a 
quietus  upon  the  financial  apprehensions  of  the  man  she 
loved. 

"Dicky,  dear,  you  mustn't  worry  about  details  just 
now.  There  are  a  few  checks  you  will  have  to  sign  in 
a  day  or  two.  And  then,  dear,  Hoffman  held  back  our 
salary  for  the  last  month,  knowing  you  were  too  ill 
to  endorse  checks.  And  it  seems  Mr.  Telfer  has  author- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         377 

ized  him  to  advance  us — you,  I  mean — any  required 
sum." 

"That's  awfully  decent  of  Teller,"  said  Dick.  "I 
didn't  expect  it.  I'll  have  to  write  and  thank  him." 

"He  is  not  in  town  now,  Dicky,  and  we  may  be  back 
in  New  York  before  he  returns.  So  you'll  let  me  take 
you  away,  won't  you  ?" 

"Will  they  hold  your  job  for  you?"  Dick  asked, 
anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  I  only  know  that  you  need  my 
care  just  now  and  that  I  am  going  with  you." 

"It's  not  to  be  thought  of,"  he  said,  excitedly.  "I 
cannot  let  you  throw  up  a  good  job  for  my  sake." 

"Dick,  love  makes  all  things  possible — makes  it  pos- 
sible to  sacrifice  and  to  make  sacrifices  as  well.  It  is 
true  I  will  have  to  sacrifice  my  position.  But  you,  dear, 
will  have  to  sacrifice  your  money,  you  will  have  to  pay 
my  board  as  well  as  your  own." 

"Naturally,"  said  Richard,  "naturally,  but  that's  no 
sacrifice.  That  is  mere  fairness.  That's,  oh,  hang  it, 
my  head  is  ringing  like  a  buzzer." 

"You  need  your  breakfast.  I'll  get  it."  She  rose  from 
her  knees,  brought  him  a  towel  and  a  wash-basin,  and 
placed  them  on  the  chair  beside  him. 

"Can  you  wash  yourself  ?    Or  shall  I  help  you  ?" 

"Thanks,  no — I'm  not  as  weak  as  all  that." 

"After  you  have  had  your  breakfast,  dearest,  I  have 
got  to  go  down  and  see  my  'boss.'  He  sent  a  note  by 
messenger,  asking  me  to  come  down  for  a  few  days." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Dick  surlily,  "everybody  is  for- 
ever whisking  you  away  from  me." 

"Wait  till  we  get  to  the  country,"  Betty  responded, 
laughing.  "You'll  see  more  of  me  than  you  want  to." 

It  was  a  very  sombre-eyed,  white- faced  girl  who,  a 
Lfew  hours  later,  rang  up  Earlcote  Manor  on  the  long 


878         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

distance  telephone.  What  in  all  the  world  was  she  to 
do  if  her  plan  with  Earlcote  miscarried?  Where  was 
she  to  turn  for  money?  While  she  waited,  receiver  in 
hand,  she  was  filled  with  a  sudden  panic  of  misgiving 
as  she  remembered  how  unwarrantably  rude  she  had 
been  to  Earlcote,  and  more  than  that,  the  thought  troubled 
her  that  Earlcote,  on  hearing  why  she  wanted  the  money, 
for  of  course  she  could  not  keep  it  from  him,  would 
refuse  it  because  he  would  be  glad  to  hear  of  the  death 
of  the  man  whom  he  feared  as  a  future  rival. 

"Here's  your  number." 

"Hello Is  this  Earlcote  Manor?  Can  I  speak  to 

Mr.  Earlcote?  Miss  Garside,  please." 

Her  blood  hammered  so  clamorously  against  her  tem- 
ples that  she  could  scarcely  hear  the  voice  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire,  but  before  Earlcote  hailed  her,  her  ex- 
citement had  abated  sufficiently  to  insure  control  of  both 
voice  and  hearing. 

"Miss  Betty?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Earlcote." 

"What  gives  me  the  pleasure  of  hearing  that  incom- 
parable voice  of  yours,  even  over  the  telephone?" 

"Then  you  still  think  it  incomparable?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Yankee,  I  certainly  do." 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  when  and  where  can  I  see  you?" 

"What's  that?  Am  I  to  understand  you  wish  to  call 
on  me?" 

"If  you  will  allow  me  to." 

"Heavens  and  earth,  I  will  prepare  the  fat  of  the 
land  for  your  entertainment.  But,  pray,  allay  my  cu- 
riosity, or  you  will  find  only  poor  clay  to  greet  you  when 
you  arrive.  What  has  happened?" 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  I'm  in  trouble,  serious  trouble."  Betty's 
voice  wavered  and  broke  off  falteringly. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         379 

"Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way?" 

"You  can,  if  you  will." 

"Well,  you  must  come  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  When 
are  you  coming?" 

"I  haven't  looked  at  a  time-table.  Is  there  a  train 
somewhere  around  eleven?" 

"Oh,  you  must  not  travel  by  train  on  a  sweltering 
day  like  this.  I'll  not  hear  of  it.  That  adorable,  angelic, 
peerless  voice  of  yours  to  be  choked  with  dust,  irritated 
by  particles  of  coal,  tortured  by  the  heat  of  a  parlor 
car?  Nonsense.  My  car  will  be  at  the  foot  of  Queens- 
borough  Bridge,  New  York  side,  at  eleven  o'clock.  The 
chauffeur  is  a  Hindu.  You  cannot  miss  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Betty  meekly.     "Thank  you." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  sat  for  a  moment,  chin 
resting  upon  the  instrument.  What  would  Earlcote  say, 
and  do,  on  finding  out  the  nature  of  her  errand?  Was 
it  foolhardy,  after  her  experience  with  Archie  Telfer,  to 
go  alone  to  Earlcote  Manor?  The  last  question  she  dis- 
missed summarily  as  unworthy  of  a  moment's  considera- 
tion. What  physical  violence  had  she  to  fear  from  Earl- 
cote— broken,  crippled,  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly 
stand  without  help?  What  indeed?  Moreover,  she  felt 
that  even  if  Earlcote  had  been  sound  and  strong,  he 
would  fight  with  other  weapons  than  mere  brute  force — 
weapons  that  would  call  for  every  grain  of  astuteness 
and  shrewdness  in  her  own  make-up. 

But  what  if  he  were  to  bring  up  the  same  old  question 
of  making  a  bargain  with  her,  a  bargain  involving  her 
voice,  since  he  had  told  her  over  the  telephone  that  he 
still  considered  that  incomparable?  She  grew  sick  with 
fear.  Dick's  life  was  at  stake — she  had  tried  every 
other  resource  and  failed  to  obtain  the  necessary  money. 
Therefore,  if  Earlcote  insisted,  nothing  would  remain 


380         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

but  to  agree  to  his  condition.  But  the  thought  of  having 
to  spend  three  or  four  hours  a  day  in  close  proximity 
with  him  for  years  to  come,  as  his  pupil,  made  her  giddy 
and  sick. 

She  hoped  against  hope  that  this  cross  would  not  be 
laid  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Even  in  the  winding  labyrinth  of  leafy  glades  of  ever- 
green, cultivated  rhodendron  shrubs,  hardy  azaleas  as 
tall  as  a  man,  thriving  privet  growths,  and  rose  pergolas 
through  which  Dushka  led  Betty,  the  heat  and  humidity 
of  the  sultry  day  were  noticeable.  They  went  down  a 
shelving,  barren,  rocky  incline  covered  with  sweet  fern 
and  bracken  and  water  plants  that  throve  on  a  thin 
trickle  of  water  oozing  between  the  rocks,  then  up  again 
through  crowding  pillars  and  domes  of  box  and  walls  of 
red  rambler  roses.  The  path  then  became  undulating, 
and  each  serpentine  twist  revealed  a  different  shade  of 
evergreen  trees,  ranging  from  palest  sea-green  to  deepest 
olive.  The  path  terminated  abruptly  and,  spread  out  be- 
fore them,  lay  the  huge  aviary,  built  in  imitation  of  the 
Taj  Mahal.  The  white  light  of  a  summer  noon  beating 
upon  it,  made  it  appear  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea, 
and  its  dazzling  splendor  was  reflected  by  a  long,  narrow 
pool  of  water,  overgrown  at  one  end  with  pink  pond 
lilies.  Flamingoes,  herons  and  kingfishers  were  laving 
themselves  in  the  water,  and  near  the  pink  pond  lilies 
several  black  swans  arched  their  graceful  necks  as  they 
swam  majestically  to  and  fro.  Box,  weeping  willows, 
cypress  trees  and  cedars,  growing  in  orderly  confusion 
along  the  narrow  footpath  on  both  sides  of  the  pool, 
gave  a  mournful  dignity  to  the  landscape.  The  four 
towers  of  the  Taj  Mahal,  altered  in  this  counterfeit 
presentment  to  serve  as  dove-cotes,  were  surrounded 
by  a  legion  of  fluttering  birds,  whose  white  plumage 
rivalled  the  snowy  whiteness  of  their  homes. 

381 


382         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Betty  gave  a  little  cry  of  astonishment.  The  startling 
loveliness  of  the  scene  pierced  through  the  sheath  her 
anxiety  had  woven  about  her  sensibilities.  Her  guide 
beckoned  to  her  to  follow.  Into  the  heart  of  a  tiny 
pine  forest  they  plunged,  and  a  few  yards  further  on, 
walking  upon  a  fragrant  carpet  of  pine  needles  that  had 
been  centuries  in  the  weaving,  they  came  upon  a  pavilion 
of  white  marble  so  exquisite  and  fairylike  in  design  that 
its  architraves  and  pillars  seemed  like  the  edge  of  some 
filmy  lace  handkerchief  transmuted  by  magic  into  stone. 
The  pavilion  was  a  copy  of  the  tomb  of  Muzar  Khan 
Baluchi  Kurmath,  at  Tatta,  but  this,  of  course,  Betty  did 
not  know. 

In  this  pavilion,  in  a  wicker  chair,  dressed  in  white 
flannels  with  a  white  cashmere  shawl  about  his  shoulders 
and  white  silk  gloves  upon  his  hands,  sat  Earlcote.  At 
his  feet,  upon  the  steps  of  the  pavilion,  crouched  the 
two  Hindu  page  boys,  their  nude  bodies  shining  like 
century  old  cedar  wood,  and,  as  they  moved,  though  ever 
so  slightly,  the  apron  of  beads  and  coins  which  was  their 
sole  garment  made  strange  sweet  music  that  blended 
softly  with  the  soughing  of  the  south  wind  in  the  pines. 
In  their  hands  they  held  enormously  long-handled  fans, 
made  of  peacock  feathers.  Betty  had  the  sensation  as 
on  her  first  visit  to  Earlcote,  of  stepping  into  a  scene 
from  the  Arabian  Nights. 

"I  will  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  you,"  said  Earl- 
cote's  sharp,  metallic  voice.  "Sit  down  opposite  me. 
That  is  the  coolest  corner.  And  if  you  still  feel  warm 
after  having  been  here  a  few  moments,  Abdullah  and 
Mahomet  will  fan  you." 

"It  is  deliciously  cool  here,"  said  Betty. 

"You  will  find  it  more  comfortable  here  than  in  the 
house,"  said  Earlcote.  "I  will  have  lunch  served  here. 
You  will  join  me?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         383 

"Thank  you,"  said  Betty.     "I  am  not  hungry." 

Her  invincible  repugnance  for  the  man  was  rampant 
in  her  once  more,  and  she  could  not  quell  it.  The 
thought  of  having  to  exchange  social  platitudes  with  him 
over  a  slowly  served  luncheon  was  intolerable.  How 
then,  if  his  society  was  so  insufferably  obnoxious  to  her 
for  the  brief  period  of  a  luncheon,  would  she  be  able 
to  tie  herself  down  to  the  bondage  of  studying  with  him 
for  years  to  come;  she  quailed  at  the  mere  thought  of 
such  a  possibility. 

Earlcote  regarded  her  shrewdly.  Betty  thought  his 
eyes  showed  a  diabolic  delight  in  her  fear  of  him. 

"You  are  not  hungry,"  he  said,  his  voice  clanging 
ominously.  "But  I  am.  Once  more  I  ask,  will  you  join 
me  at  luncheon?" 

Betty  grew  very  pale.  She  did  not  make  the  mistake 
of  underestimating  the  man  she  hated  because  of  her 
hatred.  She  realized  that  she  could  not  afford  to  an- 
tagonize him  by  being  candidly  unamiable  as  in  the  past. 
She  chafed  horribly  under  that  thought,  chafed  still  more 
also,  because  she  knew  that  he  thoroughly  understood 
the  situation,  and  would  correctly  construe  a  suave  an- 
swer. She  hated  herself  for  not  daring  to  be  brusque 
with  him.  But  she  did  not  dare. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  thickly.  "I  shall  be  glad  to 
lunch  with  you." 

"You  mean,"  Earlcote  said  icily,  "that  you  submit  to 
the  inevitable.  The  service  you  wish  me  to  render  you 
must  be  great  indeed." 

He  kept  his  wicked  eyes  fixed  on  her  even  after  he 
finished  speaking,  nor  did  he  once  remove  his  glance 
from  her  face  while  his  lips  moved  silently  as  he  gave 
his  instructions  to  Dushka  and  Hahdjan.  A  feeling  of 
terror  raced  over  Betty.  She  was  in  the  ogre's  strong- 
hold indeed! 


384         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Luncheon  was  served  with  lightning-like  rapidity. 
Earlcote  made  no  attempt  at  conducting  a  conversation 
while  Dushka  and  Hahdjan  set  the  table,  and  placed 
the  viands  upon  it.  He  continued  to  stare  at  Betty,  and 
went  on  staring  until  the  girl's  hands  were  cold  as  ice 
and  her  heart  beating  with  fear  and  repugnance  like  the 
heart  of  a  snared  bird. 

She  forced  herself  to  eat  some  of  the  food  to  which 
Earlcote  insisted  on  helping  her.  He  ate  little  himself, 
but  urged  her  to  eat,  and,  as  she  dared  not  refuse,  she 
made  a  valiant  effort  to  consume  at  least  some  of  the 
food  on  her  plate.  Finally  the  table  was  cleared  and 
the  servants  dismissed,  all  except  the  two  Hindu  boys, 
who  stretched  their  brown,  shining  bodies  at  full  length 
upon  the  marble  steps  and  went  to  sleep. 

"Now,"  he  said,  looking  at  Betty  with  narrowing  eyes, 
"now,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"Mr.  Earlcote,"  said  Betty,  the  tension  she  had  been 
under  during  the  past  half  hour  raising  her  voice  to 
such  a  pitch  that  it  was  almost  a  cry,  "I  have  come  to 
you  in  my  despair,  and  I  am  throwing  myself  upon  your 
mercy.  Richard  has  been  very  ill,  and  unless  I  can  take 
him  away  to  the  mountains,  there  is  no  hope  that  he 
will  live."  . 

Betty  had  half  expected  Earlcote  to  ask  sharply,  "And 
what  concern  is  that  of  mine  ?"  She  had  braced  herself 
for  that,  and  was  prepared  to  beg  Earlcote  eloquently  to 
give  her  his  help.  Instead,  a  complete  change  in  Earl- 
cote's  manner  took  place.  The  malevolent  smile  with 
which  he  had  regarded  her  left  his  face.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  with  a  gentleness  such  as  she  had  never 
seen  him  manifest  before.  So  guileless  was  she  in  spite 
of  her  manifold  experiences  of  the  last  months,  that  no 
suspicion  of  double  dealing  or  insincerity  occurred  to 
her. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         885 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.    'Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"I  have  told  you  all  that  counts." 

"What  ailed  him?" 

"Typhoid-pneumonia." 

"And  now  you  want  to  take  him  to  the  mountains. 
How  am  I  to  serve  you?" 

"I  hardly  dare  tell  you  what  I  came  to  ask  of  you." 

"You  will  have  to.  How  otherwise  am  I  to  know 
what  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

Betty  took  the  five  mutilated  one  thousand  dollar  bills 
from  her  purse  and  laid  them  on  the  table  one  by  one. 
Speaking  earnestly,  she  said : 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  you  have  the  other  pieces — the  pieces 
which,  if  added  to  these,  make  these  bits  of  paper  worth 
five  thousand  dollars." 

Earlcote  had  lowered  his  eyes. 

"What  follows?"  he  asked. 

"Five  thousand  dollars  is  a  large  sum  of  money,"' 
Betty  said.  "To  me  it  seems  a  small  fortune,  and  rich 
as  you  are,  that  sum  must  be  of  some  consequence  ta 
you." 

"Of  so  little  consequence,  Miss  Betty,  that  I  confess 
I  had  entirely  forgotten  the  five  mutilated  bills." 

Betty  felt  herself  cruelly  checkmated.  Did  Earlcote 
wish  to  indicate  to  her  gracefully  that  her  voice  no  longer 
seemed  the  desirable  toy  he  had  once  thought  it?  Her 
desperate  frame  of  mind  gave  her  the  courage  and  faith 
we  attain  only  under  supreme  pressure.  She  believed 
that  she  must  have  power  to  move  Earlcote  to  com- 
passion. 

"You  remember  them  now,  don't  you?"  she  asked 
after  a  pause. 

Earlcote  smiled  wanly. 

"Now  that  I  see  them  I  can  hardly  help  but  re- 
member." 


386         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Mr.  Earlcote,  I  want  to  return  these  mutilated  bills 
to  you — so  that,  by  piecing  them  together,  you  regain 
five  thousand  dollars.  And  I  ask,  beg  this  of  you.  Will 
you  loan  me  one  tenth  of  the  sum  thus  restored  to  you 
for  the  period  say  of  one  year?  Every  cent  will  be 
repaid  you." 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  make  the  return  of  the 
half-bills  dependent  upon  this  loan?" 

Earlcote's  voice  cut  like  a  razor.  It  jarred  every 
nerve  in  Betty's  body,  but  she  held  herself  in  hand  and 
replied  with  as  much  humility  as  she  could  muster : 

"Certainly  not.  The  half-bills  are  rightfully  yours. 
As  you  will  remember,  I  wished  to  return  them  to  you 
long  ago.  I  am  returning  them  now,  irrespective  of 
whether  or  not  you  will  loan  me  the  five  hundred  for 
which  I  am  asking  you." 

For  the  first  time  during  that  strange  interview  Earl- 
cote  dropped  his  eyes.  His  face  wore  an  inscrutable 
smile.  He  replied,  his  metallic  voice  as  nearly  expres- 
sionless as  such  a  vehicle  of  discord  could  be : 

"But,  of  course,  you  hope  that  I  will  loan  you  the 
money.  You  are  very,  very  anxious  for  it — aren't  you  ?" 

Betty's  heart  gave  a  great  jump  of  joy.  Earlcote's 
attitude  seemed  propitious.  With  the  optimism  of  youth, 
which  develops  every  desirable  possibility  into  a  proba- 
bility, and  that  into  a  certainty,  with  no  other  grounds 
for  so  doing  than  its  own  desire,  she  believed  that  she 
had  all  but  attained  her  end,  and  that  it  needed  merely 
a  bit  of  impassioned  pleading  on  her  part,  to  melt  Earl- 
cote  into  acquiescence. 

"Anxious  is  hardly  the  word,"  she  said.  "Richard  is 
everything  to  me,  as  you  know.  His  life  is  dearer  to  me 
than  my  own.  If  you  will  help  me,  Mr.  Earlcote,  I  will 
be  everlastingly  grateful  to  you." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         887 

"Yon  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
not  unkindly,  as  Betty  thought. 

"Every  other  friend  to  whom  I  might  apply  is  out 
of  town."  There  was  a  pause.  Earlcote  still  sat  with 
lowered  eyes,  and  suddenly,  by  some  subtle  means  of 
apprehension,  some  mysterious  undercurrent  of  thought 
transference,  perhaps,  Betty  felt  that  the  pause  was 
ominous.  A  cold  breath  of  wind  seemed  to  pass  over 
her  heart.  She  felt  chilled  to  the  marrow.  And  at 
last  Earlcote  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  squarely  met 
her  gaze. 

"Miss  Garside,"  he  said  coldly,  "the  five  thousand 
dollars  are  yours  on  one  condition." 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  loan  me  the  comparatively 
small  sum  I  ask  for  without  any  condition  except  that 
of  repayment." 

"Five  thousand,  or  five  hundred,  or  fifty  thousand — * 
it  makes  little  difference  to  me,"  Earlcote  said  calmly, 
"so  I  get  what  I  want  in  return." 

"And  that  is " 

"Your  voice,  and " 

"And ?"  A  hideous  fear  clutched  at  Betty's  heart. 

Would  he  dare  renew  the  preposterous  proposition  which 
he  had  made  her  first  of  all,  the  day  he  had  handed  her 
the  bills? 

"I  desire  to  marry  you." 

The  glory  of  the  day  was  obliterated  for  Betty.  For 
a  moment  she  seemed  to  have  gone  blind.  Then  every- 
thing flashed  back  vividly  into  acute  distinctness — the 
marble  pavilion,  the  torrid  heat  without,  the  hideous 
creature  who  sat  opposite  her,  smiling  malignantly,  and 
who  had  just  calmly  told  her  that  he  wished  to  marry 
her. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  marry  me?"  she  stammered; 


888         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

then,  as  he  laughed,  her  cheeks  crimsoned.    "You  do  not 
love  me,"  she  said. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  brutally.  "I  do  not  love 
you.  I  do  not  love  you  in  the  least." 

Betty  drew  back.  She  experienced  the  sensation  of 
having  a  snail  crawl  over  her  bare  skin — of  having  that 
loathsome  snail  inform  her  that  she — not  himself,  was 
the  undesirable  party. 

"Then  why?"  she  asked,  speaking  in  a  thick  voice. 

Earlcote  leaned  forward.  His  green  cat's  eyes  stabbed 
like  rapiers.  "I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  give  my 
reasons,"  he  said.  "I  desire  to  make  you  my  wife. 
That  is  all  that  concerns  you.  You  may  take  my  offer, 
or  leave  it,  as  you  choose." 

Betty  sat  in  horrified  silence,  staring  at  Earlcote  as 
he  had  before  stared  at  her.  Before  the  undreamed-of 
ghastly  reality  all  her  previous  fears  of  what  he  might 
exact  shrank  into  a  Lilliputian  limbo  of  oblivion.  She 
told  herself  that  this  thing  could  not  actually  be;  that 
he  was  merely  amusing  himself  a  little  at  her  expense. 

"You  cannot  possibly  mean  that,"  she  said. 

"I  most  emphatically  do  mean  it,"  he  replied. 

"But  last  autumn  you  offered  me  five  thousand  for — 
for  my  voice  alone.  Now  I  only  ask  you  for  five  hun- 
dred. You  cannot  expect  to  make  the  bargain  as  hard 
for  me  as  all  that?" 

.  "One  expects  to  make  a  bargain  as  advantageous  for 
oneself  as  possible." 

"But  what  you  suggest  is  unfair,  frightfully  unfair  to 
me.  Oh!  It's  impossible!" 

"If  it  is  impossible,  well  and  good — go  elsewhere  for 
the  money." 

"I  have  told  you  I  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to !" 

"Exactly,  it  was  very  foolish  of  you  to  give  me  that 
itiformation.  You  see,  you  gave  yourself  away." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         389 

Betty  said,  in  pained  amazement: 

"But  you  asked  me,  and  I  answered." 

"Exactly.  I  repeat,  it  was  very,  very  simple  of  you 
to  answer  that  question  of  mine.  I  really  did  not  expect 
that  you  would  answer  it.  It  was  like  taking  pennies 
from  a  child.  You  realize,  don't  you,  that  you  threw 
your  cards  down  on  the  table  for  me  to  see?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  if  you  hadn't  known  I  had  no  one 
else  to  go  to  you  might  have  been  satisfied  with  my 
voice  alone?'' 

"Precisely."  Stone  crashing  on  stone,  iron  clanging 
upon  iron,  could  not  have  been  more  harsh  than  that 
one  word,  as  pronounced  by  Earlcote. 

Betty  became  indignant. 

"You  cannot  be  as  cruel  as  all  that!  It's  fiendish!" 
she  cried. 

Earlcote  laughed.  A  gargoyle  laughing!  Betty 
clenched  her  hands.  Before  that  laugh  of  derision, 
caution,  prudence,  self-repression  went  to  the  wall. 

"I  hate  you,"  she  gasped.  "I  hate  you !  I  hate  you  I 
Marry  you!  I  would  let  myself  be  trampled  to  death 
by  wild  horses  or  be  burned  at  the  stake  before  I  would 
marry  you !" 

"Unfortunately,  being  burned  at  the  stake  or  being 
trampled  to  death  by  wild  horses  will  not  bring  you 
the  money  you  need.  Also,  allow  me  to  point  out  to 
you  how  inconsistent  you  are!"  Earlcote's  voice  had 
assumed  its  gentle,  silvery  tone — it  was  no  longer  akin 
to  iron  but  to  well-attuned  chimes  floating  over  a  snow- 
bound Christmas  landscape.  "You  malign  me  in  one 
breath  and  in  the  next  try  to  flatter  me,  in  the  most 
childish  way,  into  relinquishing  my  obvious  advantage. 
You  tell  me  I  am  a  fiend " 

"No,  no,  I  didn't  say  that!"  Reason  was  returning 
to  Betty  now  that  her  blind  fury  had  spent  itself. 


390         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Not  to-day,  perhaps — but  my  memory  is  long,  al- 
though I  had  forgotten  the  trifling  sum  of  five  thousand 
dollars  which  I  had  tied  up  on  a  gamble  upon  your 
voice." 

Betty's  anger  was  running  through  her  veins  in  a 
quick  torrent  of  flame.  This  iteration  on  Earlcote's  part 
of  the  negligible  esteem  in  which  he  held  the  sum  of 
which  a  paltry  one-tenth  stood  to  her  as  the  equivalent 
of  Richard's  life  was  little  short  of  diabolical.  She  did 
not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"You  not  merely  called  me  a  fiend,"  Earlcote  con- 
tinued, "which,  being  a  token  of  impotent  rage  on  your 
part  I  might  have  construed  as  a  compliment,  but  you 
told  me  that  you  despised  me — that  I  am  bad  and  evil, 
that  I  am  utterly  contemptible;  you  took  no  pains  to 
hide  the  fact  how  repulsive  I  am  to  you  physically. 
And  now  you  come  here  softly  and  pleasantly  and  ex- 
pect me  to  act  the  part  of  an  amiable  humanitarian  who 
expects  nothing  in  return  for  a  good  deed  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  good  performed.  You  are,  as  I  have  said, 
very  inconsistent.  If  I  am  bad  and  evil,  as  you  say,  and 
I  do  not  quarrel  with  you  for  calling  me  that,  then  surely 
I  am  strictly  within  my  right  in  acting  selfishly  and 
evilly  now." 

Betty  became  intensely  white. 

"I  should  not  have  said  unkind  things  to  you,"  she 
said.  "I  regret  having  done  so." 

"Of  course  you  regret  having  done  so  now  because 
you  realize  they  are  a  stumbling  block  in  the  way  of 
your  getting  from  me  the  trifling  sum  of  five  hundred 
dollars." 

"Mr.  Earlcote,"  Betty  begged,  swallowing  both  pride 
and  repugnance,  "I  apologize  to  you  for  anything  I 
have  said  in  the  past,  and  I  implore  you,  if  you  have  a 


"HOW   BADLY  YOU  NEED  THO8E   TWO   HUNDRED   DOLLARS"    SAID    EARLCOTE.        p.  391 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         391 

grain  of  mercy  in  your  composition,  not  to  play  with 
me  as  you  are  doing." 

"I  am  not  playing  with  you.  I  have  told  you  the 
condition  on  which  you  can  have  the  five  hundred  or  the 
five  thousand.  The  conditions  are  the  same  for  either 
sum,  and  they  are  irrevocable." 

Betty  gave  a  heart-broken  sob. 

"Loan  me  two  hundred  for  two  months,"  she  said. 
Her  brain  was  thinking  with  unwonted  rapidity.  Within 
two  months  Mr.  Reynolds  would  be  back  in  New  York, 
or  she  would  have  heard  from  Madame  Hudrazzini,  and 
from  one  or  the  other  she  would  be  able  to  obtain  what 
money  she  needed.  "It  is  all  I  ask.  I  will  even  promise 
to  become  your  pupil.  Surely — for  two  hundred  dollars 
you  cannot  ask  more  than  that?" 

"How  very  badly  you  need  those  two  hundred 
dollars,"  said  Earlcote.  "And  because  you  need  them 
so  badly,  I  do  ask  more.  I  adhere  to  my  condition." 

Betty  grew  hot  and  cold  in  quick  succession.  She 
was  beginning  to  comprehend  the  indomitable,  inflexible 
mercilessness  of  this  man.  Yet,  though  she  compre- 
hended, she  did  not  realize  it.  She  possessed  in  pre- 
eminent degree  the  peculiar  form  of  idealism  which,  all 
evidence  to  the  contrary,  believes  in  the  innate  good- 
ness of  all  of  God's  creatures.  Her  hatred  for  Earlcote 
she  had  always  held  to  reflect  upon  herself,  rather  than 
on  him.  Surely  it  needed  merely  adroit  pleading  on 
her  part  to  quicken  into  active  sympathy  the  latent  good 
in  him.  But  she  was  at  a  loss  as  to  the  words  and  method 
to  choose  in  softening  him,  and  the  physical  repugnance 
of  him  made  it  difficult  for  her  to  plead  felicitously. 

"I  do  not  even  understand  why  you  still  wish  to  teach 
me  to  sing,"  Betty  said.  "The  last  time  we  met  you 
told  me  that,  after  all,  you  did  not  consider  my  voice 
worth  your  while." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"It  is  and  it  isn't,"  snapped  Earlcote.  "I  have  ex- 
plained fully  to  you  its  desirability  and  its  undesirability. 
It  is  a  perfect  musical  instrument,  but  there  is  no  soul 
back  of  it  because  of  your  emotional  deficiency.  That 
is  why  I  desire  to  marry  you.  I  will  arouse  the  element 
which  you  lack,  and  it  will  become  fused  with  your  voice, 
making  you,  after  I  have  trained  your  voice,  the  greatest 
dramatic  soprano  of  the  twentieth  century.  Now  you 
have  the  situation  in  a  nut-shell.  Now,  too,  you  will 
understand  that  I  cannot  be  moved  one  jot  or  tittle  from 
the  stand  I  have  taken." 

Betty  looked  at  Earlcote  in  fascinated  distress.  She 
felt  as  if  a  net  were  closing  about  her — encasing  and 
enfolding  and  enmeshing  her,  and  any  word  spoken  by 
herself  might  be  the  ultimate  thread  to  bind  fast  and 
close  the  last  aperture  of  that  net.  She  felt  limp  and 
sick  and  helpless. 

"Do  you  agree?"  Earlcote  asked,  as  Betty  continued 
to  sit  in  immovable  silence. 

"I  will  never  amount  to  anything  if  I  am  forced  to 
marry  you,"  Betty  said  slowly.  "Since  it  is  only  for 
the  sake  of  my  voice  that  you  wish  to  marry  me,  you 
must  realize  that  I  will  be  able  to  do  better  work  if  I 
am  allowed  to  marry  the  man  I  love." 

"The  man  you  love!"  Earlcote  spoke  with  contempt 
indescribable,  his  voice  grating  like  steel  on  an  iron  file. 
"What  is  the  use  of  rehashing  all  that?  Richard  Pryce 
has  your  romantic  love,  but  he  has  been  unable  to  awaken 
the  woman  in  you.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  suppose 
that  I  could  ever  win  your  love,  but  I  repeat  what  I 
told  you  a  month  ago.  Your  hatred  for  me  has  an  ele- 
ment which  your  love  for  Richard  Pryce  lacks,  it  is  sur- 
charged with  sex.  By  and  by  you  will  begin  to  com- 
prehend many  things  and  your  voice  will  assume  a  new 
quality,  and  you  will  sing — heavens  and  earth,  how  you 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         393 

will  sing!  And  mine,  mine  will  be  the  glory  of  the 
achievement!  Now,  do  you  understand?" 

Earlcote  stretched  forth  his  gloved  hands.  His  entire 
being  seemed  galvanized  into  a  vitality  which  Betty  had 
never  seen  in  him  before. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  "do  you  dimly  comprehend  what 
this  golden  chance  means  to  me,  who  have  been  con- 
demned for  five  horrible  years  to  musical  inactivity? 
Do  you  realize  what  that  matchless  voice  of  yours 
means  to  me?  No,  no,  I  will  have  you,  body  and  soul, 
to  fashion  and  mould,  to  make  and  to  develop  as  I 
please !  No  more  endless  days  of  enervating  listlessness, 
but  the  world  of  music  to  reconquer,  the  great,  magnifi- 
cent, difficult  battle  to  fight  all  over  again,  knowing  that 
I,  with  your  voice  as  my  instrument,  will  win  out  a 
second  time  as  I  won  out  before!" 

Terror  swooped  down  upon  Betty  before  this  tor- 
rential outpouring  of  passion.  In  Earlcote's  eyes  burned 
the  fire  of  invincible  purpose  which  propels  all  fanatics — 
for  all  souls  dominated  by  only  one  overmastering  pas- 
sion are  fanatics  of  a  sort,  whether  they  be  delicate 
dreamers  akin  to  Handel,  surreptitiously  practicing  his 
scales  in  a  garret  in  his  childhood  to  evade  the  persecu- 
tions of  a  commercially-minded  father,  or  to  the  multi- 
fold soul  of  Islam,  burning  and  pillaging  under  duress 
of  its  bigotry. 

Betty  recognized  the  futility  of  opposing  her  will 
against  this  man's.  Beside  him  she  was  a  pigmy,  but 
something  of  his  ruthless  iron  spirit  seemed  to  enter 
into  her.  She  nerved  herself  for  a  supreme  effort.  She 
knew  it  was  useless  to  beg,  and  yet  she  begged,  pleaded, 
entreated  and  implored  with  an  impassioned  poignancy 
which  until  then  had  been  alien  to  her.  Here  was  a 
lew  Betty,  indeed.  Until  now  she  had  allowed  common- 
sense  to  prevail.  Heretofore  she  would  never  have  at- 


394         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

tempted  the  impossible.  Now,  even  as  she  begged  and 
supplicated,  she  knew  that  her  endeavors  were  fore- 
doomed to  failure.  And  yet,  knowing  that  she  must  fail, 
with  a  persistence  that  held  the  element  of  grandeur,  she 
continued  to  implore  his  clemency.  Her  solicitations 
ended  always  in  the  same  phrase: 

"You  cannot  be  so  cruel — for  such  a  small  sum — it  is 
like  asking  my  soul  in  return." 

"I  do  ask  it  in  return — although  the  phrase  is  usually 
used  in  quite  a  different  sense." 

"If  it  were  a  larger  sum?" 

"The  larger  sum!  I  have  told  you  you  can  have  as 
much  as  you  ask.  Larger  or  smaller,  the  money  is 
nothing  to  me." 

Betty  fingered  the  mutilated  bills  still  lying  on  the 
table  between  them.  Earlcote  suddenly  took  a  small 
envelope  from  his  wallet  and  showed  her  that  it  con- 
tained the  companion  half-bills. 

He  laid  the  envelope  on  the  table,  and  then,  pulling 
out  his  cigarette  case,  placed  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth. 
He  struck  a  match,  but  instead  of  applying  it  to  the 
cigarette,  he  lighted  one  of  the  half-bills  which  Betty 
had  placed  on  the  table,  and  with  that  burning  half  bill 
he  lighted  another,  and  so  on  until  the  fifth  had  burned 
to  a  crisp.  With  this  finally  he  lighted  his  cigarette. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "do  you  understand  of  how  little  value 
money  is  to  me?" 

The  sensations  which  Betty  experienced  were  those  of 
a  starving  man  or  woman  who  sees  a  rich  man  deliber- 
ately destroy  bread. 

She  said  in  a  low  voice  which  had  the  effect  of  soft- 
ness: 

"Murder  has  been  done  for  lesser  provocations.  If 
I  could,  if  I  knew  how,  I  think  I  would  murder  you 
now." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         395 

"The  poison  is  working,"  said  Earlcote.  "You  will 
leave  me  now  in  high  dudgeon.  To-morrow  morning 
you  will  come  back  and  signify  your  willingness  to  take 
my  name  and  the  five  thousand.  Five,  or  ten,  it  will  be 
for  you  to  say  which.  Stanley  Earlcote  will  not  haggle 
about  money  with  the  woman  he  marries." 

Betty  rose  and  pulled  on  her  long  gloves. 

"After  this  assuredly  I  will  not  marry  you,"  she  said. 
"Even  if  Richard  is  to  die  in  consequence.  But  he  will 
not  die." 

She  expected  Earlcote  to  ask  for  an  interpretation  of 
the  last  statement.  She  imagined  he  would  become 
alarmed;  that  he  would  fear  that  after  all  she  had 
resources  at  her  command  of  which  she  had  said  nothing. 
But  her  poor  little  desperate  move  was  wasted  on  the 
astute  Earlcote. 

"No,"  he  said,  "Richard  Pryce  will  not  die.  You  will 
save  him  by  doing  as  I  wish." 

"I  will  save  him  by  doing  as  someone  else  wishes," 
said  Betty.  "I  was  not  quite  accurate  when  I  told  you 
that  I  had  no  one  else  to  turn  to.  I  have  an  offer  of 
the  necessary  funds  from — someone  else." 

"Nevertheless,  you  will  accept  my  offer — not  someone 
else's." 

"I  would  not  be  too  certain." 

"The  other  offer  is  even  more  distasteful  to  you  than 
mine,  I  am  quite  certain." 

"Could  anything  approximate  in  distastefulness  an 
offer  of  marriage  from  you?"  Betty  asked  tauntingly. 
"I  think  not" 

"I  think  'yes.'  Otherwise  you  would  not  have  listened 
to  me  for  such  a  length  of  time.  I  am  not  a  mind-reader, 
but  I  can  tell  you  why  the  offer  is  even  more  distasteful 
to  you — because  it  involved  dishonor.  Am  I  not  right 
in  my  conclusion?" 


396         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Betty  buttoned  her  glove  with  an  assumption  of  in- 
different calm.  Earlcote's  shrewdness  filled  her  with 
sudden  volcanic  rage.  Her  blood  literally  seemed  to 
boil;  to  seethe  and  foam  in  a  chaotic  violence  that  af- 
fected her  throat.  And  again  the  strange  sensation  of 
being  older,  more  experienced,  herself  yet  not  herself, 
took  possession  of  her. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  quietly,  without  looking  at 
Earlcote,  "in  that  the  other  offer  involves  dishonor. 
However "  Betty  looked  up  and  squarely  met  Earl- 
cote's  eye,  "however,  even  dishonor  is  less  disagreeable 
to  me  than  marriage  to  you." 

She  looked  Earlcote  over  with  deliberate  insolence. 
She  did  not  understand  herself.  She  knew  that  her  face 
was  expressive  with  sinister  eloquence  at  the  moment, 
and  she  gloried  that  in  some  way  which  she  herself 
did  not  understand  she  was  so  thoroughly  able  to  show 
Earlcote  how  deep  and  abysmal  was  her  contempt  for 
him. 

Earlcote's  eyes  narrowed  to  tiny  slits. 

"If  your  voice  were  trained,  with  what  expression  you 
would  sing  now !  Ah — I  am  on  the  right  track.  I  will 
make  a  great  singer  of  you  yet." 

Betty  stepped  from  the  pavilion  into  the  path. 

"Don't  be  too  sure,"  she  said.  "It's  a  gamble,  you 
know."  The  feeling  of  being  a  mature  woman  and  not 
a  mere  girl  grew  stronger.  Why — oh  why — had  she  not 
felt  thus  at  the  beginning  of  the  interview?  Why  had 
she  been  so  stupidly,  asininely  frank  with  him?  "If  I 
were  you,"  she  continued,  "I  wouldn't  gamble.  I  would 
take  the  certainty." 

"The  voice  without  the  woman?  No,  thank  you,  I 
prefer  the  gamble,  because  I  am  confident  of  the  out- 
come." 

Betty  gave  him  a  look  of  indolent  contempt. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         S97 

"Will  you  call  your  man  to  guide  me  out  of  this 
labyrinth?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  waiting  for  you  at  the  next  lilac  bush — and  the 
car  is  waiting  for  you  a  little  beyond." 

"Thank  you.  Good-bye."  Without  vouchsafing  him 
another  glance,  she  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Betty  dismissed  Earlcote's  automobile  at  the  same 
place  where  it  had  picked  her  up — the  Fifty-ninth 
Street  entrance  to  the  Bridge.  She  rode  across  to  Fifth 
Avenue  in  the  trolley;  then,  filled  with  intolerable  ner- 
vousness, she  left  the  trolley  and  stood  irresolutely  at 
the  junction  of  the  two  great  thoroughfares. 

In  spite  of  the  season,  Fifth  Avenue  was  not  de- 
serted. Vehicles  of  every  description,  automobiles  and 
touring  cars,  plied  busily  up  and  down.  She  remembered 
how  Dick  and  she  had  stood  more  than  once  at  that 
very  point,  trying  to  count  how  many  autos  passed  in 
a  minute,  and  how  they  had  amused  themselves  by 
selecting  the  machine  which  each  would  choose  to  own, 
if  they  were  rich.  She  became  angry,  indignantly  angry. 
Surely  in  this  big  town,  in  this  "little  old  New  York," 
noted  for  the  big-hearted,  whole-souled  responsiveness 
of  its  citizens,  to  every  cry  of  distress  proceeding  from 
no  matter  what  remote  corner  of  the  earth,  there  was 
more  than  one  man  or  woman  who  would  help  her,  if 
they  only  knew  of  her  trouble.  But  how  to  make  her 
distress  known  to  those  charitable  souls?  She  could 
neither  proclaim  her  trouble  from  the  house-tops  nor 
advertise  it  in  the  papers.  The  latter  possibility  fas- 
cinated her,  but  after  dallying  with  it  she  dismissed  it 
as  untenable.  A  year  in  New  York  had  taught  her 
that  an  advertisement  soliciting  financial  assistance  was 
bound  to  bring  one  sort  of  offer  only. 

Rapidly  she  began  walking  down  the  Avenue.  She 
thought  of  Archie  Telfer.  She  seemed  to  be  adrift  upon 

398 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         399 

a  sea  of  fear  and  indecision.  When,  to  alarm  Earlcote, 
she  had  threatened  to  accept  Archie  Telf  er's  dishonorable 
offer,  she  had  not  for  one  moment  intended  accepting  it. 
Now,  however,  it  seemed  to  her  that  of  the  two  proposi- 
tions Archie's  was  preposterous  in  a  minor  degree.  A 
new  feeling  stirred  in  her.  While  thought  of  marriage 
to  Earlcote  made  her  sick  and  giddy  with  fear  and 
repugnance,  she  realized  that  if  Archie,  instead  of  Earl- 
cote, had  insisted  on  marriage,  she  would  have  regarded 
the  sacrifice  required  of  her  in  a  very  different  way.  She 
would  have  deplored  the  loss  of  Richard  as  her  life- 
companion,  but  she  would  have  looked  with  comparative 
equanimity  upon  the  necessity  of  becoming  Archie's 
wife. 

She  was  woman  enough  to  realize  that  to  marry  one 
man  while  she  loved  another  must  mean  supreme 
anguish.  But  there  was  in  that  anguish  a  certain  nobility, 
a  certain  austere  joy  of  self-immolation.  It  was  like 
sinking  in  quicksand,  earth  and  sky  gradually  receding 
from  the  sight  of  the  victim.  To  perish  like  that  held 
an  element  of  grandeur.  But  there  was  no  grandeur  in 
the  thought  of  yielding  herself  to  a  man  whom  she  de- 
tested as  cordially  as  she  detested  Earlcote.  To  marry 
such  a  man  as  Earlcote  was  not  to  sink  in  quicksand — 
it  was  to  sink  in  a  quagmire,  a  morass. 

In  her  perturbation  she  almost  raced  down  the  Avenue. 
She  was  forced  to  stop  for  a  minute  at  a  crossing,  and 
she  realized  that  she  was  within  a  block  of  Archie 
Telf  er's  hotel.  Why  not  go  there?  Why  not  end  the 
terrible  mental  struggle  that  was  rending  her?  What 
was  an  hour  of  shame  and  humiliation  and  dishonor  com- 
pared to  a  lifetime  of  ignoble  bondage  to  Earlcote?  She 
told  herself  that  she  was  mad,  quite  mad  to  hesitate.  It 
would,  of  course,  ultimately  be  necessary  to  tell  Richard 
of  her  dishonor,  but  Richard,  who  had  erred  himself, 


400         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

would  certainly  not  withhold  his  forgiveness,  particularly 
as  her  sin  was  to  be  the  means  of  saving  his  life.  Would 
she  not  sin  more  deeply  against  Richard  in  marrying 
Earlcote  than  in  selling  herself  to  Archie.  She  ran 
down  the  street  like  one  demented.  She  whispered  to 
herself  that  on  no  account  must  she  think.  Reproaches 
and  self-condemnation  would  inevitably  follow  in  the 
trail  of  her  sin,  but  no  matter  how  black  and  heinous 
the  pangs  of  remorse — they,  anything  and  everything, 
were  preferable  to  marriage  to  Earlcote. 
-  She  walked  into  the  lobby  of  Archie  Telfer's  hotel, 
and  asked  the  clerk  to  telephone  her  name  to  his  room. 

Utterly  miserable  and  wretched,  she  sat  down  in  a 
huge  leather  arm  chair  and  waited.  Her  heart  beat 
frantically.  Disjointed  events  and  episodes  came  back 
to  her.  She  remembered  her  mother's  eloquent  warn- 
ing against  that  breach  of  morality  which  she  was  about 
to  commit.  The  circumstances,  the  details  of  that  episode 
stood  out  against  the  horizon  of  her  memory  with  vivid 
distinctness.  But  she  hardened  herself  against  that 
warning  coming  to  her  from  beyond  the  grave.  She 
acquitted  herself  with  the  plea  that  the  circumstances  of 
her  case  were  not  merely  exceptional  but  unique. 

Her  thoughts  were  brought  to  a  violent  standstill,  as 
a  train  is  arrested  by  a  collision,  by  the  appearance  of 
Archie  Telfer.  Suave  and  smiling  gravely,  his  hat  in 
his  hand,  his  every  gesture — the  very  posture  of  his 
figure,  denoting  submission  and  respect,  he  approached 
her. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

The  words,  inoffensive  in  themselves,  but  tinctured 
with  a  subtle  meaning,  sent  the  blood  away  from  Betty's 
heart.  Suddenly,  in  a  moment  of  inexpressible,  flash- 
light vividness  a  comprehension  of  the  position  in  which 
she  was  about  to  place  herself,  came  upon  her. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         401 

She  had  come  there  for  the  express  purpose  of  selling 
herself  to  Archie  Telfer  for  the  sum  of  six  hundred 
dollars.  She  had  come  here  to  prostitute  herself.  She, 
Betty  Garside,  had  been  about  to  do  this  thing ! 

She  rose  and  said  abruptly : 

"I  came  here  thinking  I  could  give  you  what  you  desire 
in  return  for  the  money  which  was  to  save  Richard's  life. 
I  find  I  am  mistaken.  I  am  not  willing  to  make  the 
exchange." 

Turning,  she  walked  quickly  away  and  out  of  the 
hotel. 

She  had  acted  from  no  moral  conviction,  no  fear  of 
consequences,  no  acquiescence  in  her  mother's  warning. 
She  had  been  impelled  not  to  dishonor  herself  merely 
by  the  blind,  unreasoning  impulse  which,  for  the  average 
woman  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  makes  the  giving 
of  herself  to  a  man  whose  name  she  does  not  bear,  not 
so  much  a  thing  wicked  and  evil  as  low  and  inexpressibly 
vulgar. 

Outside  of  the  hotel  a  feeling  of  supreme  inertia,  of 
leaden  fatigue  came  over  her.  She  reflected  dimly  that 
now  there  remained  no  means  of  saving  Richard's  life 
save  by  marrying  Earlcote.  She  was  amazed  at  her 
exceeding  placidity  with  which  she  now  regarded  the 
inevitable. 

She  was  conscious  no  longer  of  aversion  or  hatred. 
Only  two  facts  remained  clear-limned.  She  loved 
Richard,  and  she  was  tired,  desperately  tired.  It  came 
to  her  that  on  the  morrow  she  would  be  a  rich  woman. 
No  need  now  to  save  pennies  for  Richard's  sake.  Her 
fatigue  became  intensified  to  the  point  of  physical  and 
nervous  exhaustion. 

She  stepped  into  the  street  and  accosted  a  policeman, 
asking  him  to  hail  a  taxicab  for  her.  As  she  stepped  into 
it  she  experienced  merely  a  sensation  of  physical  relief; 


402          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

no  fear  of  the  next  day;  no  fear  of  the  ultimate  fate 
awaiting  her. 

Arriving  at  home,  she  ran  directly  to  Dick's  room. 

"Dearest,  did  you  have  a  very  long  day  without  me?" 

As  she  knelt  by  his  bedside,  and  felt  his  thin  arm 
about  her,  every  thought  and  emotion  save  that  of  love 
for  him  vanished.  She  remembered  suddenly  that  she 
must  fabricate  a  plausible  story  to  account  for  the  money 
she  was  to  receive  the  next  day.  She  smiled,  she  kissed 
his  cheek,  she  stroked  his  hand,  and  then,  though  he 
protested  vigorously,  she  kissed  it. 

"I  wouldn't  stay  away  from  my  Dicky  a  minute  if  I 
didn't  just  have  to,"  she  said.  "And  I've  got  to  be 
away  again  to-morrow,  too." 

"All  day?"  Leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  regarded  her 
wistfully. 

"All  morning — I  hope  to  be  back  earlier  than  to-day. 
Why  are  you  in  bed,  Dicky  ?  Are  you  feeling  worse  ?" 

"I  was  tired,  very  tired,"  he  said,  speaking  querulously 
like  a  child,  "that's  because  you  were  away  from  me." 

"After  to-morrow,  darling,  I  will  not  be  away  from 
you  one  single  minute  all  day.  It  is  all  arranged.  Hoff- 
man is  to  give  me  a  substantial  sum  in  bulk  as  an  advance 
on  your  salary  account.  If  agreeable  to  you,  he  will 
make  the  check  payable  to  me,  so  as  to  save  you  all 
bother.  Later,  when  you  are  well  enough  to  attend  to 
financial  details,  I  can  transfer  the  bank  account  to  you. 
Is  that  satisfactory?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Dicky,  "and  if  I  continue  to  be  this 
lazy  I  shall  be  glad  not  to  have  to  look  after  the  money 
end  at  all.  Betty,  dear,  you  little  white  saint — isn't  all 
this  too  much  for  your  fragile  shoulders  ?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Where  are  you  taking  me  to,  Betty?" 

"I  think,  dear — we  will  have  to  settle  ultimately  to-day 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART          403 

where  we  are  going — that  the  place  in  the  Adirondacks 
is  more  suitable.     Satisfied  ?" 

"Yes,  Betty.     But  will  my  bank  account  stand  it?" 

"The  board  is  a  little  high.  However,  I  am  getting 
the  money  in  bulk.  He  is  loaning  me — Oh,  what's  the 
use  of  bothering  you  with  details?  I  have  it  all  figured 
out,  dear,  and  we  will  pull  through  very  nicely." 

"Very  well,  dearest." 

His  utter  indifference,  the  fatigue  he  manifested  even 
after  a  short  unexciting  talk,  made  her  realize  keenly 
how  necessary  it  was  to  get  him  away.  Her  heart  con- 
tracted with  a  sudden  horrid  fear  as  she  looked  at  his 
white  face  and  emaciated  arms.  What  if  he  were  to  die 
after  all?" 

"Betty,"  he  said  suddenly  with  closed  eyes,  "have  you 
forgiven  me  entirely?" 

"Yes,  Dicky." 

"If  I  had  behaved  myself  I  would  not  be  quite  as 
ill  as  I  am.  I  mean,  I  might  have  taken  typhoid,  but  I 
would  have  rallied  much  more  quickly.  Do  you  realize 
that?" 

"Fully,  dearest." 

"You  are  paying  more  heavily  for  my  sin  than  I«| 
You  paid  in  giving  up  your  position  at  Telfer's  to  take 
one  not  nearly  as  agreeable,  and  you  are  paying  now  in 
giving  up  your  present  position.  I  am  ashamed  of  my- 
self, Betty,  bitterly,  horribly  ashamed.  It  seems  it  is 
always  the  woman  who  pays — even  the  perfectly  innocent 
woman  has  got  to  pay  in  some  way  or  another  when  her 
lover  or  husband  goes  wrong.  Betty,  tell  me  again  that 
you  forgive  me." 

Betty  gathered  Dick  in  her  arms  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  his.  Without  speaking  she  held  him  thus  for  a 
few  minutes  like  a  sick  child.  She  was  paying,  indeed, 
for  his  wrong,  more  heavily  than  he  suspected  and  now 


404         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

a  great  wave  of  thankfulness  swept  over  her  for  having 
escaped  Archie  Telfer.  Ultimately,  on  telling  Richard 
of  that,  she  would  have  excoriated  him.  If  he  had 
dragged  her  into  dishonor  through  his  own  wrong-doing, 
he  would  never,  in  all  the  world,  have  forgiven  himself. 
Remorse  and  self-reproaches  could  have  corroded  his 
mind,  poisoned  his  heart  and  vitiated  his  entire  life.  To 
tell  him  of  her  marriage  to  Earlcote  would,  in  truth, 
be  horrible  enough.  Her  marriage  to  Earlcote — well, 
she  was  not  married  yet,  and  she  still  hoped,  with  the 
supreme  optimism  of  youth,  that  some  miracle  would 
save  her  from  the  necessity  of  contracting  such  an 
alliance. 

Still  holding  Richard  in  her  arms,  she  said,  speaking 
with  sudden  passionate  intensity: 

"Dick,  darling,  I  have  learned  much  these  last  weeks. 
I  know  now,  darling,  that  love  must  make  a  man  and 
woman  one  in  spirit;  that  their  unity  must  be  so  com- 
plete if  one  falls,  the  other  falls  too;  that  if  the  man 
errs,  his  fault  is  due  quite  as  much  to  some  short- 
coming on  the  woman's  part  as  to  his  own  viciousness. 
I  do  not  quite  comprehend  this  as  yet,  but  I  feel  that 
it  must  be  so.  Neither  of  us,  since  we  love  each  other 
truly  and  wholly,  can  commit  an  isolated  act.  All  our 
acts  bind  and  tie  us  together.  They  are  chains  of  iron 
or  velvet  thongs,  but  velvet  or  iron,  they  hold  firmly  and 
closely  and  indissolubly.  You  and  I  are  one,  Dicky;  for 
any  fault  of  either,  for  the  sin  of  one,  the  error  in 
judgment  of  the  other,  both  must  pay.  Otherwise  love 
would  not  be  love,  and  we  twain  would  not  be  one." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  words  which  sprang  so  spontaneously  to  Betty's 
lips  amazed  her  quite  as  much  as  they  amazed  Richard. 
She  had  every  reason  to  be  rilled  with  despair  and  with 
fear.  Yet  the  words  which  came  unbidden  from  the 
subconscious  depths  of  her  heart  lulled  and  soothed  her. 
She  slept  soundly  through  the  night,  and  when,  the  next 
morning,  she  finally  sat  opposite  Earlcote  in  the  marble 
pavilion,  she  felt  a  courage  and  resolution  very  different 
from  the  shrinking  horror  of  the  day  before.  She  had 
a  purpose  to  fulfill,  and  she  would  fulfill  it.  She  was 
about  to  promise  herself  in  marriage  to  a  man  she 
loathed,  to  tie  herself  to  him  in  bodily  and  spiritual 
bondage,  and  yet  she  felt  that  in  some  subtle  way  an 
ineffable  something,  the  quintessence  of  her  soul  and 
therefore  of  herself  she  would  reserve  for  Richard.  Her 
spirituality  had  never  been  more  intense  than  at  the 
moment.  And  her  brain  was  clear,  clear  as  a  bell.  She 
would  not  blunder  to-day.  Richard's  life  and  well-being 
and  happiness  were  at  stake. 

"Well,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  casual  voice,  without 
giving  Earlcote  a  chance  to  sneer  at  her,  "I  have  come 
back  as  you  prophesied." 

"You  are  ready  to  marry  me?" 

"That  was  your  condition.  I  also  have  a  condition  to 
make. 

"Name  it." 

"I  am  to  have  the  right  to  dispose  of  the  sum  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  exactly  as  I  wish." 

405 


'406         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"That,  of  course,  is  understood.  You  realize,  natur- 
ally, that  I  am  going  to  insist  upon  an  immediate  mar- 
riage." 

Betty's  self-possession  wavered,  swayed  to  and  fro 
like  a  pendulum  and  righted  itself. 

"You  mean — to-day?" 

"I  do." 

"But  who  is  to  take  care  of  Richard?  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  I  go  away  with  him.  Won't  you  give  me 
three  months'  time?" 

"You  shall  have  three  months  or  a  year's  time  if  you 
wish.  Immediately  after  the  ceremony,  to-day,  you  are 
at  liberty  to  go  and  rejoin  your  Richard." 

"Very  well,"  Betty  said  quietly.  "I  agree.  As  to  the 

disposition  of  the  ten  thousand  dollars "  She  paused, 

looking  keenly  at  Earlcote.  He  said  impatiently: 

"I  have  already  agreed  to  your  condition." 

"You  have.  It  remains  for  me  to  explain  what  I 
wish  done  with  the  money." 

"It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  tell  me." 

"Pardon  me,  it  is." 

"Eh?"  Earlcote  was  startled  out  of  himself  by  the 
surprise  communicated  to  him  by  the  statement. 

"I  asked  for  the  larger  sum  for  this  reason.  The  bulk 
of  it  is  to  go  into  a  scholarship  for  Richard  to  cover 
a  period  of  three  or  four  years." 

"A  scholarship?"  Earlcote  rasped,  emphasizing  the 
word  by  shooting  out  his  hideous  hands  toward  Betty. 
He  wore  no  gloves  to-day  and  Betty  recoiled".  Earlcote 
said  viciously,  as  she  shrank  from  him: 

"You  will  have  to  get  accustomed  to  them  now." 

"Yes,"  Betty  assented  feebly.  "Meanwhile,  let  us 
revert  to  the  scholarship.  You  will  have  to  let  it  come 
to  Richard  in  such  a  way  that  he  does  not  suspect  whence 
the  money  emanated." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         407 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  Earlcote  snarled.  "What  sort 
of  an  easy  mark  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"I  can  retort  by  putting  the  same  question  to  you," 
Betty  responded  coolly.  "If  the  condition  does  not  suit 
you — my  other  offer  still  is  open  for  your  acceptance — 
five  hundred  and  my  voice." 

Earlcote  brought  his  hand  down  upon  the  small  round 
table  furiously. 

"You  wanted  to  save  Richard  Pryce's  life,"  he 
screamed.  "I  am  furnishing  the  money  for  that.  You 
don't  suppose  I  will  help  him  in  his  career?" 

"So  I  was  right  about  your  jealousy  of  him?  And 
you  are  not  willing  to  have  me  dispose  of  the  money  as 
I  pleased?" 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  that  you  should  do  so." 

"No,  you  are  not.  You  were  foolish  enough  to  offer 
me  a  much  larger  sum  of  money  than  I  asked  for  out 
of  mere  braggadocio."  She  mimicked  Earlcote's  manner 
of  the  day  before,  succeeding  admirably.  "It  was  very, 
very  simple  of  you  to  throw  your  cards  upon  the  table 
so  recklessly,  Mr.  Earlcote." 

He  fumed  with  rage,  and  she  continued : 

"This  is  where  I  have  the  whip-hand,  and  you  will 
do  as  I  say  or  I  will  call  the  deal  off." 

"I  have  no  means  at  my  command  to  make  it  appear 
as  if  Richard  Pryce  were  receiving  a  scholarship,"  Earl- 
cote said  at  length. 

"You  will  have  to  find  means.  You  are  connected  in 
various  ways  with  half  a  dozen  musical  organizations. 
You  can  create  a  scholarship  in  one  of  them  for  his 
especial  benefit.  But  I  am  not  going  to  make  the 
tremendous  sacrifice  you  exact  of  me  merely  for  Richard 
Pryce's  life.  What  would  life  mean  to  him  without  my- 
self and  without  a  career.  His  art  and  myself  are  his  two 
great  loves.  If  one  or  the  other  is  eliminated  from  his 


408          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

life  he  will  still  be  able  to  go  on.  But  deprive  him  of 
both,  and  life  would  mean  for  him  a  void,  a  burden, 
a  nothing.  I  would  be  doing  him  a  poor  service,  indeed, 
to  save  his  life  and  rob  it  of  everything  that  makes  it 
worth  while." 

Earlcote  lowered  his  eyes.  Usually  he  stared  those 
with  whom  he  was  talking  out  of  countenance.  Betty, 
remembering  that  his  craftiness  of  the  day  before 
was  accompanied  by  the  same  gesture,  was  on  her 
guard. 

"The  money  is  yours,"  Earlcote  said.  "Why  this 
nonsense  about  a  fraudulent  scholarship  ?  Why  not  hand 
the  money  to  him  yourself?" 

Betty  replied  with  spirit: 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  why  not.  Richard  would 
not  be  the  man  he  is;  he  would  not  be  the  man  I  love 
if  he  would  accept  money  for  any  purpose  whatsoever 
from  the  girl  he  loves  procured  at  such  a  price.  You 
know  this.  You  count  on  this  in  your  calculations.  But 
I  am  not  quite  as  foolish  and  simple  as  you  think. 
Either  you  agree  to  arrange  matters  so  that  Richard 
Pryce  believes  the  scholarship  abroad  comes  to  him 
through  some  institution,  or  our  deal  is  off.  And  one 
word  more,  Mr.  Earlcote.  You  yourself  must  not  figure 
in  the  transaction.  You  must  take  excellent  care  to 
arrange  things  so  that  Richard  will  not  suspect  any- 
thing of  the  truth.  If  he  does,  if  he  refuses  the  scholar- 
ship in  consequence,  I — although  I  will  then  be  your 
wife  legally,  will  not  be  your  pupil.  This  is  final  and 
ultimate." 

Earlcote  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  She  had  spoken 
with  the  aplomb  and  assurance  of  a  woman  of  the  world. 

"The  woman  in  you  is  fast  developing,"  he  observed. 

"It  is,"  Betty  said,  coldly.  "It  is  only  now,  when  I  am 
being  forced  to  give  up  Richard  Pryce  as  my  life-corn- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         409 

panion  that  I  am  beginning  to  realize  how  dear  he  is 
to  me.  That  being  so,  I  am  going  to  give  him  every 
chance  of  happiness  in  his  art." 

"You  will  have  to  decide,"  Betty  went  on,  "whether 
you  prefer  having  my  voice  to  train  and  looking  forward 
to  Richard  as  a  great  pianist,  or  not  having  my  voice 
to  train  with  the  chances  dead  against  Richard.  For  if 
you  refuse,  Mr.  Earlcote,  I  am  going  to  take  my  chance 
on  pulling  Richard  through  right  here  in  the  city.  He 
may  not  pull  through,  and  then,  again,  he  may.  The 
best  physicians  make  mistakes." 

Earlcote  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  will  do  as  you  say,"  he  said.  "Do  you  wish  a  con- 
tract, in  writing?" 

"It  is  not  necessary.  You  live  up  to  your  part  of  the 
agreement  and  I  will  live  up  to  mine." 

Earlcote  said,  gravely:  "I  trust  you  implicitly,  Miss 
Betty — I  know  that  you  will  live  up  to  your  part." 

A  little  later  Earlcote  counted  out  ten  thousand  dollars 
in  crisp,  new  five-hundred-dollar  bills  to  Betty,  and  after 
that  the  minister,  whom  Earlcote  had  summoned,  mar- 
ried them.  The  expeditious,  business-like  dispatch  with 
which  the  momentous  event  was  carried  through  turned 
Betty's  knees  to  jelly.  While  she  listened  to  the  mar- 
riage service  her  heart  seemed  to  gyrate  throughout  her 
entire  body.  She  gave  the  promise  "to  love,  honor  and 
obey,"  with  the  liveliest  emotions  of  hypocrisy  and 
shame.  There  fell  an  awkward  pause.  The  moment  had 
come  for  the  bridegroom  to  kiss  the  bride.  Betty  turned 
agonized  eyes  upon  Earlcote.  He  remained  immovable 
and  silent,  and  the  minister,  after  a  momentary  pause, 
continued,  concluding  the  ceremony. 

After  he  was  gone,  Earlcote  said : 

"When  am  I  to  expect  you  ?" 

"Three  or  four  months  hence,  as  soon  as  Richard  is 


410         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

perfectly  well,  but  not  before  the  matter  of  the  scholar- 
ship has  been  arranged." 

"There  is  nothing  you  wish  to  say  to  me  before 
you  go  ?" 

Betty  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said,  nervously,  "for  the  generosity 
you  showed  in  not  kissing  me — in  allowing  me  to  return 
to  Richard  with  lips  unsoiled  by  the  touch  of  another's." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

With  the  blandness  of  youth,  Betty  had  failed  to  real- 
ize what  a  strain  she  had  entailed  upon  herself.  She 
looked  forward  to  the  day  when  she  must  surrender  her- 
self to  Earlcote  as  the  apex  of  her  sacrifice,  but  she  was 
to  perceive,  in  the  weeks  that  followed  the  ceremony  of 
her  marriage,  that  though  the  zenith  of  her  suffering  lay 
in  the  dim,  distant  land  of  the  future,  there  was  an  appre- 
ciable quantity  of  suffering  for  her  along  the  road  she 
was  traveling  to  reach  that  future. 

First  of  all,  there  was  the  immediate  anxiety  for 
Richard  himself.  For  many  weeks  after  they  reached 
Mount  Eerie,  his  life  seemed  to  hang  in  the  balance. 
The  slightest  change  in  temperature,  the  tiniest  digres- 
sion from  the  diet  prescribed  for  him,  affected  him 
adversely.  Betty  had  once  expressed  the  wish  to  be 
able  to  serve  and  wait  on  Richard,  to  do  for  him  con- 
stantly. The  wish  now  was  abundantly  gratified.  She 
heated  his  milk  for  him,  prepared  the  malted  milk,  took 
the  temperature  for  his  bath,  laid  out  his  fresh  linen — 
she  even  turned  on  the  steam  in  his  room  in  the  morn- 
ing before  he  got  up  to  dress. 

"To  all  intents  you  two  might  be  married,"  said  one 
of  the  boarders,  a  woman  of  about  forty. 

"To  all  intents,  except  one,"  Betty  responded,  gravely. 
"I  hope  you  do  not  think  ill  of  me  for  being  a  trifle 
unconventional." 

An  elderly  woman,  with  a  sweet  face  framed  by  white 
hair,  who  was  knitting  a  pink  and  white  afghan,  dropped 
her  work  and  said: 

411 


412         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"No,  my  dear,  we  do  not.  There  is  not  a  person  in 
the  house  but  loves  and  respects  you  for  the  self-sacrific- 
ing devotion  with  which  you  are  nursing  Richard  Pryce." 

Betty  clasped  her  arms  across  her  bosom  and  broke 
into  the  swift  eloquence  with  which  she  was  gifted  only 
when  deeply  moved. 

"There  is  no  self-sacrifice  attached  to  it,"  she  said. 
"If  it  were  not  selfish,  wicked,  even,  I  could  wish  for 
nothing  better  than  to  have  him  dependent  upon  me 
always.  I  am  happiest  when  I  am  doing  something  for 
him.  I  wish  I  had  the  right  to  go  to  the  kitchen  and 
cook  his  soup.  Oh,  you  will  laugh  at  me,  of  course,  but 
there  are  mornings  when  I  resent  having  running  water 
in  the  house.  I  would  like  to  have  to  go  to  the  well,  on 
a  cold  winter  morning,  and  draw  bucket  after  bucket  of 
water  and  carry  the  buckets  up  three  flights  of  stairs, 
one  by  one,  and  then  heat  them  for  his  bath — not  to 
prove  that  I  love  him,  but  just  for  the  sake  of  doing  for 
him." 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  interposed  the  woman  of  forty,  "that 
task  would  be  far  too  easy.  There  is  a  pond  a  half 
mile  away  from  the  house.  Why  not  go  there  on  a 
morning  when  mercury  is  fifty  below,  and  chop  a  hole 
into  the  ice  for  the  water.  The  hole  would  be  caked 
over  by  the  time  you  got  back  to  it  for  the  second  bucket, 
and  you  could  have  the  pleasure  of  chopping  a  new  hole 
into  the  ice  for  every  new  bucket." 

"I  suppose  you  do  think  me  awfully  silly,"  said  Betty. 

"I,  for  one,  think  you  are  a  darling,  even  if  you  are  a 
sentimental  little  goose,"  said  a  bride  of  three  months. 
"Catch  me  slaving  for  my  husband,  if  he  were  to  fall 
sick,  the  way  you  are  doing  for  your  sweetheart.  Be- 
lieve me.  Nothing  doing." 

But  the  sweet  old  lady,  with  the  halo  of  white  hair, 
protested. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART         413 

"Miss  Betty's  spirit  is  the  right  spirit.  It  is  far  too 
much  on  the  wane.  The  love  that  suffers  all  things  and 
endures  all  things,  that  courts  hardships  and  glories  in 
overcoming  impediments,  is  the  true  love.  My  dear,  I 
would  like  to  kiss  you." 

Betty  received  the  kiss  of  the  old  lady  in  silence,  and 
the  good-natured  laughter  of  the  others  was  brought  to 
an  end  by  the  arrival  of  the  house-wagon,  lumbering  up 
the  road  with  the  mail-bag  in  full  view.  They  all  scur- 
ried off  for  the  morning's  mail.  Among  the  letters 
handed  to  Betty  was  one  addressed  to  Richard,  in  a  hand 
she  did  not  know,  and  she  carried  it  to  his  room,  wonder- 
ing from  whom  it  might  be. 

"Dicky,  are  you  asleep?"  she  whispered  at  the  door. 

He  opened  it,  by  way  of  reply,  and  invited  her  to 
enter.  Both  Betty  and  he  had  asked  to  have  cots  sub- 
stituted for  beds  in  their  rooms,  as  owing  to  his  precari- 
ous condition  it  was  unavoidable  that  they  enter  each 
other's  rooms  during  the  day. 

"From  whom  is  it?"  Betty  asked. 

"Haven't  the  remotest  idea." 

He  opened  it,  furrowed  his  brow,  and  then  gave  a 
joyful  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Betty!" 

"What  is  it,  Dick  ?    May  I  glance  over  your  shoulder  ?" 

"Betty,  darling  sweetheart,  it  is  from  the  secretary 
of  the  Musical  Progress  League."  He  began  reading 
aloud,  skipping  words  here  and  there,  but  giving  the  gist 
of  the  letter,  "having  reconsidered  our  decision,  believing 
the  verdict  by  a  certain  judge  to  have  been  not  wholly 
unbiased — four  years — Europe — allowance  of  two  thou- 
sand a  year !  Betty  .  .  ." 

Betty's  face  indicated  almost  as  much  surprise  as  his. 
She  had  expected  to  hear  from  Earlcote  prior  to  his 
taking  action,  and  the  particular  way  in  which  he  had 


414         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

taken  action,  without  as  much  as  notifying  her,  amazed 
her  intensely.  This  especial  way  of  doing  the  thing  was 
the  very  last  solution  of  the  problem  she  would  have 
expected. 

The  letter  made  her  realize  keenly  that  the  pact  be- 
tween herself  and  Earlcote  was  in  full  force,  and  she 
experienced  a  sensation  of  nausea.  Some  day,  no  matter 
how  remote  that  day  now  seemed — unless  death  merci- 
fully snatched  her  away,  she  must  surrender  herself  to 
Earlcote.  She  was  innocent,  but  she  was  not  as  ignorant 
as  she  had  once  been,  and  more  than  once  her  imagina- 
tion had  dwelt  upon  possibilities,  in  her  future  relations 
with  Earlcote,  too  hideous  to  be  contemplated  with  any 
sensation  but  that  of  acute  horror. 

"Betty,  you  do  not  seem  a  bit  happy." 

"I  am  very  happy  for  you,  Dick." 

"That  sounds  as  if  you  and  I  had  different  interests. 
Two  thousand  a  year !  Oh,  Betty,  I'll  be  a  great  artist 
some  day,  after  all.  I'll — "  he  spoke  so  fast  that  he 
stumbled  over  his  words  and  his  sentences  became  tele- 
scoped into  intelligibility.  While  he  spoke  he  ran  up 
and  down  the  room,  rumpling  his  fingers  through  his 
hair.  It  was  the  first  time  since  his  illness  that  he  had 
done  this  particular  thing.  He  was  intensely  agitated 
with  joy.  "Betty,  Betty — why  do  you  seem  so  indiffer- 
ent, so  sad,  almost?  You  have  been  so  sweet  with  me 
all  along." 

He  came  and  placed  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  as  if 
to  swing  her  about.  She  resisted  gently.  She  realized 
that  her  face  was  an  index  of  her  feelings,  and  that  she 
must  put  it  in  order  before  he  caught  sight  of  it.  The 
thought  came  to  her  to  let  him  see  her  face ;  to  arouse  his 
suspicion  by  continuing  silent  and  sad.  Then — if  he 
suspected — if  he  arrived  at  the  truth,  she  would,  thanks 
to  the  one  clause  of  her  agreement,  be  able  to  crawl  out 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         415 

of  her  pact  with  Earlcote.  But  her  sense  of  justice  and 
probity  told  her  how  dishonest  such  a  course  would  be. 
Moreover,  Richard  was  not  yet  quite  well;  she  dared 
not  excite  him,  and  because  of  this,  and  because  Earlcote 
was  playing  fair,  she  felt  that  on  no  account  would  she 
be  more  base  than  he. 

When  she  faced  Richard  at  last,  she  had  her  face 
under  control. 

"I  am  happier  for  you,  Dick,  than  I  can  say." 

"You  have  a  queer  way  of  showing  it,"  he  grumbled, 
somewhat  disgruntled. 

"I  am  a  little  selfish,  dearest.  I  would  love  to  have 
you  to  myself  always.  This  splendid  good  fortune  will 
take  you  from  my  side." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!  Two  thousand  a  year  is  a  small 
fortune.  We'll  get  married  as  soon  as  we  get  back  to 
New  York.  Of  course,  dear,  for  the  present,  for  years 
to  come,  marriage  must  mean  that  you  take  my  name 
only.  You  trust  me  as  to  that,  don't  you?  You  know 
that  you  are  sacred  to  me,  don't  you,  Betty?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know." 

"Then  say  you  will  marry  me.  Darling,  it  will  be 
good,  so  good,  to  know  that,  after  all,  my  talent  will 
secure  you  ease  and  comfort." 

The  element  of  grim  humor  in  the  situation  did  not 
escape  Betty!  But  the  grimness  was  decidedly  more 
apparent  than  the  humor.  She  said,  evasively : 

"Don't  let  us  plan  for  the  future,  dear.  Let's  enjoy 
the  present.  We  were  so  happy,  weren't  we,  dear?" 

"Happy?  I  should  say  I  am  happy!"  The  exquisite 
egotism  of  the  man  nature  in  combination  with  the  art- 
ist soul  made  possible  perfect  indifference  to  the  low 
spirits  of  the  girl  he  loved  and  who  loved  him  so  devot- 
edly. Betty  saw  it  with  a  pang.  For  the  first  time  a 
doubt  came  to  her  as  to  the  measure  of  his  love  for  her. 


416         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Similarly  situated,  would  he  hare  made  a  sacrifice  ap- 
proximating in  cruelty  the  one  she  had  made  for  him? 

"Betty,  Betty,  I  am  so  happy.  Where  is  my  music? 
That  tinpanny  piano  downstairs  is  a  little  out  of  tune. 
But  I  will  perish  unless  I  give  expression  to  my  happi- 
ness. As  Schumann  said  to  his  Clara,  'I  should  like  to 
sing  myself  to  death,  like  a  nightingale.'  " 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  sing  yourself  to  death,  indeed,  if 
you  go  to  the  piano  now,"  said  Betty.  His  condition  of 
febrile  excitement  seriously  alarmed  her.  "Your  nerves 
are  jumping.  Come,  let  us  take  a  long  walk  to  quiet 
them." 

"Nerves!  I'll  go  insane  unless  I  hear  music,  good 
music,  at  once." 

"I'll  sing  for  you.    Will  that  do?" 

"Betty,  you  are  certainly  perfect."  He  kissed  her, 
then  resumed  tramping  the  floor.  "Your  voice  will  soothe 
me.  I  confess,  I  am  a  little  jerky  now." 

"What  shall  I  sing,  Dicky?" 

The  simple  offer  to  sing  involved  heroism  on  her  part, 
for — because  of  her  bargain  with  Earlcote,  she  fairly 
loathed  her  voice  these  days. 

"Sing  Schumann's  'Im  wunderschoenen  Monat  Mai.' " 

"Very  well,  come  and  sit  down  in  the  Morris-chair." 

"I  cannot  sit  still.    I  am  too  nervous." 

Betty  insisted.  She  arranged  the  chair  for  him,  and 
persuaded  him  to  sit  down  by  pretending  that  she  was 
unable  to  sing  unless  she  felt  his  hand  in  hers.  Her  ruse 
succeeded.  He  sat  down,  leaned  back  and  closed  his 
eyes.  She  drew  the  shade  down;  he  protested;  she  de- 
clared the  light  hurt  her  eyes ;  he  acquiesced.  Then,  tak- 
ing his  hand  in  hers,  she  began  singing.  She  sang  the 
song  he  had  asked  for,  and  another  and  another,  and  fin- 
ally she  felt  his  fingers  relax  in  hers.  He  had  fallen 
asleep. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         417 

She  stopped  singing  and  sat,  regarding  him.  A  pro- 
found sorrow  swept  over  her.  For  the  first  time  that 
day  she  had  thought  him  egotistical.  She  now  ques- 
tioned herself  as  to  the  sin  he  had  committed.  That,  too, 
in  a  way,  had  been  due  to  egotism,  and  it  was  for  that 
egotism,  that  old  sin  of  his  that  she  was  to  suffer  a  life- 
term  of  bondage.  Because  he  had  been  selfish  and  weak 
she  had  been  forced  to  take  upon  herself  the  most  ignoble 
servitude  imaginable  for  a  woman  of  spirit — marriage 
to  a  man  she  loathed.  For  the  first  time  she  questioned 
her  wisdom.  Was  Richard  worthy  of  the  colossal  sacri- 
fice she  was  making  for  him?  Then  she  wondered 
whether  this  attitude  on  her  part  marked  a  new  era — 
an  epoch  of  beginning  selfishness  in  her  life.  She  ana- 
lyzed herself  and  her  emotions  narrowly,  realizing  keenly, 
as  she  did  so,  that  she  was  no  longer  the  na'ive,  unso- 
phisticated and  charitable  girl  of  a  year  ago.  She  now 
completely  forgave  him  his  sin  as  such.  She  regretted 
it  not  so  much  on  moral  grounds  as  for  the  concrete  con- 
sequences in  which  it  involved  herself.  She  herself 
was  doing  wrong,  for  she  was  lying  to  him,  and  the  fact 
that  the  deception  she  was  practising  on  Richard  was 
based  on  unselfishness  on  her  part  made  it  no  whit  less 
a  deception. 

Right  or  wrong,  worth  while  or  not  worth  while,  she 
loved  him.  She  became  intensely  aware  that,  being 
human,  he  as  well  as  she  had  sharply  defined  limitations. 
But  she  loved  him.  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  vista  before  her  was  not  as  hopeless  as  it  had  ap- 
peared. Somewhere  in  the  distance  happiness  beckoned. 
Nothing  could  ultimately  deprive  Richard  and  herself 
of  that.  She  could  not  explain  the  feeling.  She  did  not 
attempt  to  dissect  it.  Intuitively  she  felt  it  was  good  for 
her  and  that  she  must  cling  to  it. 

The  enormous  sadness  that  invaded  her  suddenly  dis- 


418         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

solved  itself  in  tears.  But  she  was  afraid  to  give  away 
to  the  luxury  of  weeping.  She  knew  that  she  was  so 
wrought  upon  that  her  tears  would  come  not  as  a  sum- 
mer shower  but  as  a  wintry  tempest.  A  tempest  of 
tears  would  shake  her,  set  to  quivering  the  hand  that 
held  his,  and  that  quivering  of  her  hand  might  wake 
him.  Therefore,  she  controlled  her  emotion  and  choked 
back  her  tears. 

Richard  improved  rapidly  after  that.  The  first  week 
in  October  brought  the  first  cold  weather,  and  the  brisk, 
cold  air  seemed  to  buoy  up  Richard  to  an  almost  normal 
condition.  Betty  realized,  with  horror,  that  another  five 
or  six  weeks  would  restore  him  to  health.  She  now  tried 
to  retard  his  complete  restoration  to  health.  She  did 
not  insist  on  his  taking  as  many  milk  punches,  nor  so* 
much  of  the  calf's-foot  jelly  as  before.  She  was  not  as 
eager  to  keep  him  from  long,  fatiguing  walks,  or  from 
playing  too  long.  She  almost  rejoiced  when  he  seemed 
less  well,  as  happened  occasionally.  She  was  in  the 
anomalous  condition  of  wishing  him  perfectly  recovered, 
but  not  quite  well,  for  when  anything  ailed  him  she  was 
sick  with  fear  of  a  serious  relapse.  Her  emotions  swung 
to  and  fro,  like  a  pendulum. 

Betty  practised  daily  self-repression  in  these  weeks. 
Every  day  brought  her  a  step  nearer  the  hour  of  her 
surrender.  Her  nerves  were  at  constant  tension.  She 
thought  of  Marlow's  Faustus,  and  that  last  moving,  ter- 
ror-filled speech,  "Now,  Faustus,  thou  hast  scarce  an 
hour  to  live,  and  then  thou  shalt  be  damned  perpetually." 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  signed  away  herself  to  perpetual 
damnation.  Yet,  with  the  sublime  heroism  of  which 
only  women  are  capable,  and  which  transcends  the  great- 
est gallantry  achieved  by  any  soldier,  the  greatest  feat  of 
daring  performed  by  any  sailor,  she  smiled  and  joked 
and  laughed  and  forced  herself  to  appear  happy. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         419 

The  weather  was  perfect.  The  house  at  which  they 
were  boarding,  was  deserted  by  the  younger,  gayer  ele- 
ment by  the  beginning  of  November,  and  house  and 
grounds  were  so  large  that  Richard  and  Betty  seemed 
to  be  in  a  little  paradise  all  by  themselves. 

Richard's  mood  approached  exaltation.  Never,  noli 
during  his  early  courtship,  had  he  shown  such  ecstasy. 
The  sweet  fever  of  convalescence,  which  painted  all  the 
world  rosy  for  him,  conjoined  with  the  promise  of  a 
splendid  future,  aroused  in  him  a  rapturous  fervor. 

One  afternoon,  having  played  the  twenty-four  Pre- 
ludes of  Chopin,  with  Betty  at  his  side,  in  tender  and 
poetic  language,  he  invoked  a  vision  of  that  monastery 
in  Majorca,  where  the  master,  on  being  denied  shelter 
by  the  inns  and  hostelries  because  of  his  disease,  sought 
refuge  with  George  Sand  and  the  faithful  coterie  of 
friends  who,  adoring  in  him  the  master  as  well  as  the 
kindred,  though  exalted  spirit,  had  followed  him  to  his 
winter's  exile.  Situated  on  a  promontory  that  overlooked 
the  sea;  wind-swept,  sea-battered,  inhabited  by  hooting 
owls,  cawing  crows  and  haunted  by  predatory  eagles, 
the  deserted,  gloomy,  crumbling  old  monastery,  which 
was  scarce  fit  to  serve  as  a  human  abode,  by  the  very 
pitifulness  of  the  estate  to  which  it  had  fallen,  stimulated 
the  mind  of  the  master  into  the  various  moods  perpetu- 
ated in  the  preludes. 

Richard  likened  the  preludes  to  precious  gems.  Not 
only  is  every  mood,  every  emotion,  every  passion  depicted 
in  them,  but  they  possess  a  strange  potency  of  visualiza- 
tion. They  invoke,  by  some  subtle  means,  pictures  at 
once  passionate  and  poignant,  and  the  infinitesimal 
shades  which  they  reflect,  from  the  peace  inhabiting 
deep  autumnal  hues — russets  and  grays  and  browns — of 
the  Fifth,  to  the  somber  passion  of  the  Twentieth,  from 
the  dainty  swish  of  fairy  wings  and  caroling  of  birds 
of  the  Eighth  and  the  majestic  sweep  of  eagle  wings  in 


420         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

the  Tenth,  through  countless  gradations,  allied  and  yet 
diversified,  similar  and  yet  unlike,  they  have  their  equiva- 
lents in  the  unbelievably  minute  differences  in  shades 
which  characterize  the  topaz,  aquamarine  and  sapphire, 
all  of  which  are  blue,  and  the  hiddenite,  chrysoberyl, 
nephrite,  jadeite  and  peridat,  all  of  which  are  green. 

Betty  finally  interrupted  Richard's  rhapsody. 

"Let  us  take  a  walk  before  twilight,"  she  suggested. 
They  stood  at  the  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of 
barberry  hedges  showing  a  strawberry  pink  at  a  distance, 
and  serving  as  a  background  for  an  enormous  bed  of 
pampas  grass,  the  feathery  tops  of  which  swayed  in  the 
wind,  like  the  plumes  of  King  Henry  of  Navarre.  A 
grove  of  spreading  beech  trees  of  enormous  girth,  stood 
to  one  side,  half  of  their  sulphur-yellow  leaves  strewn 
at  their  feet,  the  other  half  suspended  against  the  western 
sky,  like  tiny  disks  of  translucent  gold-leaf. 

Richard  did  not  wish  to  walk.  He  waved  his  hands 
to  indicate  the  landscape  without. 

"Next  week,"  he  said,  "I  will  have  to  leave  all  this. 
I  will  be  well  enough  to  return  to  New  York." 

Betty's  heart  failed  her.  He  had  made  similar  an- 
nouncements half  a  dozen  times  before,  when  a  return 
to  business  was  apparently  warranted  by  his  health.  To- 
day the  announcement  was  justified.  He  was  the  picture 
of  health. 

"You're  not  well  enough,  Dicky,"  she  began,  but  he 
interrupted  her  vehemently  with: 

"I  am  well  enough,  dearest,  and  you  know  I  am." 

"One  week  more,  Dicky." 

"Dearest,  it  isn't  honest.  Think,  I  have  to  tell  Mr.  Tel- 
fer  about  this  scholarship — and  to  make  arrangements 
to  repay  him  the  amount  of  money  Hoffman  advanced 
you  on  account  of  my  salary.  It  is  really  only  fair  that 
I  get  to  New  York  as  quickly  as  possible  in  order  to 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         421 

adjust  matters.  It's  a  matter  of  acting  honorably,  you 
can  see  that." 

Betty  became  alarmed.  He  had  been  so  supremely 
happy  all  day  that  it  seemed  an  impossible  task  to  topple 
him  down  from  the  height  of  his  bliss.  She  had  braced 
herself  for  the  moment,  but  now  that  it  had  come  the 
blow  fell  in  much  the  same  way  as  a  death  which  has 
long  been  expected.  It  found  Betty  in  an  anticipatory 
mood  and  yet  unprepared. 

She  entreated  Richard  to  remain  one  more  week. 

"For  my  sake,  Dick.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  depended  on 
it.  It  isn't  dishonest — or  dishonorable.  If  I  could  only 
convince  you." 

"You  must  allow  me  to  judge." 

"My  feelings  are  more  dependable  in  this  than  your 
judgment." 

"Feelings  are  never  dependable." 

Still  she  begged  and  he  gainsaid.  She  clung  to  his 
neck.  In  her  terror  of  the  revelation  which  she  would 
have  to  make,  she  unconsciously  resorted  to  feminine 
artifices  such  as  she  had  never  employed  before.  She 
laid  her  cheek  against  his.  She  kissed  him  repeatedly — 
even  his  mouth;  she  brushed  back  his  hair  with  her 
hand;  but  his  fine  sense  of  duty  made  him  adamantine. 

Finally,  to  end  the  combat,  he  said : 

"Betty,  it's  useless.  Mr.  Telfer  returned  to  town  three 
days  ago.  I  had  no  chance  before  then  to  write  and 
thank  him  for  his  more  than  kindness,  and " 

"You  haven't  written  him,  now,  have  you?"  Betty 
demanded,  the  blood  chill  in  her  veins. 

"I  have." 

"Oh,  Richard!    And  mailed  the  letter?" 

"No,  dear;  it  will  go  with  te-night's  mail."  He  mis- 
understood her  gesture  of  relief. 

"You  will  not  Have  to  mail  it,  Dick." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Betty,  sweetheart,"  he  was  a  little  vexed,  almost 
cross,  "don't  start  all  over  again." 

"Dick,  you  haven't  Mr.  Telfer  to  thank  at  all." 

It  was  out  at  last.  She  had  said  it  not  in  the  least  as 
she  had  pictured  herself  beginning  her  painful  task,  but 
at  least  the  beginning  was  made.  She  felt,  as  she  looked 
into  his  face,  mirroring  a  look  of  polite  surprise,  as  if 
flames  from  a  fiery  furnace  lapped  between  them.  He 
was  calm  now.  Five  minutes  hence  he  would  be  raving 
through  the  room  like  a  madman,  and  it  was  reserved 
for  her  to  say  the  thing  that  would  bring  about  the 
transformation. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Mr.  Telfer  did  not  advance  the  money  which  we  have 
been  spending  during  your  convalesence." 

Richard  said,  in  a  tone  which  was  disproof  personified : 

"But  you  told  me  he  did,  Betty." 

"I  told  you  an  untruth." 

"You — !  Nonsense.  You  are  saying  this  to  make 
me  hold  back  the  letter." 

"No,  Dick,  I  am  saying  it  because  inevitably  I  will 
have  to  tell  you  the  truth." 

He  was  still  politely  incredulous. 

"Who  else?"  he  asked. 

"Dick,  I  was  in  desperate  straits.  The  doctor  told 
me  I  would  have  to  get  you  away  in  order  to  save  your 
life.  I  went  to  every  one  I  could  think  of  to  pro- 
cure a  loan.  Madame  Hudrazzini  was  abroad — the 
Reynolds  were  on  the  Continent,  Direktor  Markheim  and 
Mr.  Telfer  were  away  on  a  long  cruise.  Then  .  .  ." 

She  broke  down  under  the  intense,  taut  look  of  his 
eyes  which  told  her  he  was  beginning  to  realize  that  her 
story  of  Mr.  Telfer's  loan  had  been  some  sort  of  merciful 
fiction. 

"And  then  ?"  he  asked,  quietly. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         423 

"Then — then — I  sold  myself." 

"You  sold  yourself!  You  sold  yourself!  Betty!"  He 
sprang  toward  her.  "It's  not  true — it  cannot  be  true! 
I  will  not  believe  it!  No,  no,  NO!"  He  clenched  his 
hands,  he  beat  his  knuckles  together  and  bit  his  lips 
savagely. 

"Not  in  that  way,  Dick !" 

A  sensation  almost  of  peace  came  over  her  in  her 
gratitude  that  she  had  escaped  Archie  Telfer. 

"I  knew  it  was  not  so,  Betty !  When  a  woman  speaks 
of  selling  herself,  she  means  one  thing  only." 

"Not  always,  Dick.  A  woman  can  sell  herself  in 
marriage." 

"In  God's  name,"  he  begged,  his  face  gray  with  fear, 
"tell  me  quickly  what  you  mean." 

"I  could  have  sold  myself  the  other  way,  but  I  chose 
to  sell  myself  in  marriage,  rather  than  dishonor  myself. 
Say  I  did  right,  Dick !" 

"That  means,"  he  groaned,  "that  my  chance  of  happi- 
ness is  destroyed,  utterly  destroyed,  forever."  Tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks.  He  was  completely  unstrung. 

Wretched  as  she  was,  Betty  did  not  fail  to  note  the 
complexion  of  his  wail.  He  thought  of  himself,  not  of 
her,  whose  suffering  was  positive  while  his  was  merely 
negative.  Were  all  men,  even  he  who,  in  her  eyes,  was 
the  best  of  men,  so  different  from  women?  But,  while 
she  criticized  him,  she  remembered  that  she  must  be 
careful  of  him.  The  nervous  shock  might  otherwise 
bring  on  serious  consequences  of  some  sort. 

"You  must  not  blame  me,  Dick,"  she  said,  gently.  "I 
consented  to  this  marriage  only  after  I  had  exhausted 
every  other  plan." 

He  asked,  with  sudden  fierceness : 

"Whom  did  you  consent  to  marry  ?  Archie  Telfer  ?  I 
thought  he  had  married  some  one  else." 


424         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Not  Archie  Telfer." 

"Who,  then?" 

"Earlcote." 

"What .  .  .  ?"  She  had  known,  of  course,  that  he  would 
fume  and  rage  and  bluster,  but  not  in  her  wildest  dreams 
of  anticipation  had  she  expected  such  an  outpouring, 
such  an  upheaval  as  followed.  A  chaotic  stream  of  fury 
and  disgust  ran  lava-like  from  his  lips.  And  now,  too, 
he  was  thinking  of  her. 

"It  cannot  be.  You  shall  not  sacrifice  yourself.  You 
shall  not  marry  that  fiend." 

"Dick — I  am  married  already." 

"It  can't  be,  it  can't  be!"  In  his  face  she  read  his 
thoughts.  She  shivered  a  little  as  she  realized  how  far 
her  education,  guided  by  Earlcote,  had  progressed. 

"I  came  away  immediately  after  the  ceremony,  Dick! 
He  merely  wanted  to  be  sure  of  his  legal  right." 

"Such  a  marriage  is  a  farce — it  can  be  annulled." 

"I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  annulled.  And  even  if  it 
could  be  I  would  not  ask  to  have  it  annulled.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair,  you  know,  would  it?" 

"Fair?  Who  thinks  of  being  fair  to  that  cheat,  that 
toad,  that  blot  upon  the  fair  face  of  the  earth?"  In  his 
wrath  Richard  became  Shakespearian.  The  epithets  he 
heaped  upon  Earlcote  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
imagination  and  vocabulary  of  a  Paris  fishwife.  "I  tell 
you  I  will  kill  him  before  I  would  allow  you  to  be  held 
to  such  an  unholy  bargain." 

"But  killing  Earlcote  wouldn't  be  honest,  Dick.  You 
were  so  full  of  honesty  talk  when  you  thought  Mr.  Tel- 
fer had  helped  us." 

But  Dick  was  at  the  moment  not  amenable  to  reason. 
He  continued  to  rave  distractedly.  A  little  later  he 
begged : 

"Let  us  go  away  together,  and  say  we  are  man  and 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         425 

wife.  Let  us  go  West — somewhere  where  no  one 
knows  us." 

"Is  it  Richard  who  suggests  this  to  me?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  base  of  me,  doubly  base  because  of 
my  illness.  But  come  away  with  me — come  away  with 
me — only  to  escape  him,  as  my  sister,  if  not  as  my  wife." 

"No,  Dick." 

"But,  Betty — you  cannot — it's  unthinkable — let  us  kill 
ourselves.  Be  good  to  me,  be  kind  to  me — I  shall  go 
insane  .  .  ." 

She  hardened  herself  against  his  wail. 

"Because  we  have  been  cheated,  Dick,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  we  must  turn  into  cheats  ourselves." 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  Betty.  You,  to  whom  the 
idea  of  marriage  was  so  distasteful — it  cannot  be  that 
you  have  fallen  in  love  with  Earlcote  ?" 

"Dick,  are  you  out  of  your  mind  ?  I  have  pledged  my 
word — what  else  is  there  to  do?" 

She  was  limp  and  weak  with  the  fever  which  had 
been  running  through  her  veins,  and  she  spoke  with 
seeming  diffidence.  His  wrath  increased,  towered, 
burned  into  a  frenzy.  She  became  more  and  more  diffi- 
dent as  he  became  more  and  more  intense.  A  homicidal 
mania  possessed  him.  He  wanted  to  kill  Earlcote  and 
Betty  and  himself,  and  then,  again,  he  declared  that  he 
would  kill  Earlcote  only.  He  vowed  it  was  his  duty  to 
do  this. 

"Any  jury  would  acquit  me,"  he  cried,  "if  all  the  facts 
of  this  infamous  deal  were  to  be  made  known.  And 
then  there  will  be  no  impediment  to  our  great  happi- 
ness." 

"I  promise  you  I  will  never  marry  you  if  you  murder 
Earlcote." 

"Heavens  and  earth!  To  lose  you,  to  lose  you! 
Surely,  no  man  was  every  punished  for  his  sin  as  cruelly 


426         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

as  I  am  being  punished."  He  raved  on;  he  threw  dis- 
cretion to  the  winds. 

Pale  and  trembling,  Betty  listened  in  silence  to  his  out- 
break. When  Richard  paused  at  last  to  draw  breath, 
she  said,  coldly: 

"Earlcote  does  not  love  me." 

"What?" 

She  explained  briefly  why  he  had  insisted  on  marriage. 

"And  because  he  does  not  love  me,  Dick,"  she  said,  "I 
entertain  one  little  ray  of  hope — the  hope  that  he  thinks 
the  terrific  strain  I  have  been  under  all  these  weeks 
will  bring  out  what  it  pleases  him  to  call  my  'latent 
womanhood,'  and  that  he  will  release  me  from  marriage." 

"That's  very  clever  of  you,"  said  Dick,  "but  I  do 
not  believe  that  he  harbors  any  such  eleemosynary 
intentions." 

"Dick — he  didn't  kiss  me  at  the  ceremony." 

"No  ?"  Dick's  brow  contracted.  "May  have  been  pure 
devilishness  to  make  you  think  the  very  thing  you  are 
thinking.  Betty — if  he  insists  on  marriage  to  you — I 
won't  kill  him,  since  you  say  you  will  not  marry  me  in 
that  event,  but  I  will  kill  myself.  I  cannot  go  on  living 
knowing  that  you  are  the  wife  of  another  man,  and  that 
man  Earlcote." 

"No,  Dicky,"  she  said,  quietly,  "you  will  not  kill 
yourself." 

"I  will,  I  will."  He  began  tramping  the  floor,  the  slim, 
eloquent  fingers  at  work  in  his  hair.  "I  will,  I  will."  He 
said  it  stubbornly,  not  excitedly. 

Betty  met  him  as  he  tramped  to  and  fro,  and  gently 
arrested  his  walk  by  placing  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"No,  Dick,"  she  said,  "you  will  not  kill  yourself,  and 
I  will  tell  you  why.  You  no  longer  own  your  own  life, 
dear,  and  therefore  you  have  no  right  to  throw  it  away. 
.Your  life  belongs  to  me.  I  have  paid  a  horrible  price 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         427 

for  it — the  most  cruel  price  any  one  can  pay,  and  I 
claim  it  as  my  own.  Even  if  the  scholarship  had  not 
come  to  you,  which,  contrary  to  all  expectations,  makes 
your  career  almost  a  certainty,  I  would  expect  you  to 
go  on  living.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Dick,  that  love 
of  your  art,  now  you  have  means  to  pursue  it  thoroughly, 
will  compensate  you  in  some  degree  for  loss  of  my- 
self, or,  at  least,  make  loss  of  myself  more  tolerable." 

"No,  no,"  he  cried,  vigorously,  but  she  realized  that  in 
invoking  the  vision  of  a  dazzling  future  she  had  obtained 
the  desired  effect.  She  was  focusing  his  thoughts  upon 
the  good,  not  the  ill  of  the  future. 

"But  you  did  not  know  this  chance  would  come  to 
me,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "and  you  saved  my  life,  never- 
theless. To  what  end  would  you  have  expected  me  to 
live?  Wasn't  it  a  little — a  wee  little  bit  selfish  of  you, 
Betty,  to  save  me  ?" 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  in  a  sort  of  exaltation. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  if  I  am  sturdy  enough  to 
accept  my  future,  you  would  have  been  robust  enough 
to  live  yours.  The  fact  that  this  wonderful  opportunity 
has  come  to  you  seems  a  sort  of  vindication  of  my  belief 
that  in  the  end  everything  will  come  out  right.  Your 
work  will  make  your  future  easier,  and  I  feel  certain,  I 
cannot  say  why,  that  something  will  come  into  my  life  to 
make  mine  easier  also.  We  are  both  young.  The  hap- 
piness we  both  long  for  may  yet  be  in  store  for  us. 

"It  is  unthinkable  that  God  should  have  put  this  great, 
wonderful  love  into  your  heart  and  mine  only  to  allow 
it  to  remain  unrequited.  We  may  be  separated  from 
each  other  for  years,  but,  in  the  end,  dearest,  we  will 
be  united.  And  I,  for  one,  Dicky,  love  you  so  truly, 
so  dearly,  that  I  am  content  to  assume  the  burden  of 
years  of  heartache  and  homesickness  for  you,  and  of 
actual  suffering  as  well,  in  hopes  and  in  belief  that  we 


428         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

may  yet  be  happy — and  if  I  knew  now  that  our  happi- 
ness were  to  be  ever  so  brief,  that  ultimately  it  was  des- 
tined to  last  only  a  few  months,  a  few  weeks,  a  week,  I 
would  yet  be  willing  to  endure  all  hardship  and  suffer- 
ing that  intervenes  for  the  sake  of  my  love  for  you. 
And  you  must  realize,  Dicky,  that  I  am  bearing  the 
brunt  of  this.  You,  it  is  true,  have  the  pain  of  losing 
me.  But  in  addition  to  losing  you,  the  frightful  anguish 
is  in  store  for  me  of  a  union  with  Earlcote." 

Sobbing,  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Dicky,"  she  sobbed,  "promise  me  that  you  will 
not  rob  me  of  this  one  ray  of  hope — this  last  desperate 
hope  of  some  day  being  happy  with  you,  by  killing  your- 
self. Promise  me !  Think,  darling,  I  would  have  to  go 
on,  nevertheless ;  my  part  of  the  bargain  would  have  to 
be  performed,  and  imagine  what  a  horrible  blank,  what 
an  unspeakable  desert  my  life  is  bound  to  be  if  I  haven't 
that  last  straw  to  cling  to." 

"Dearest,"  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  held  her 
close,  "dearest,  what  a  cad,  what  a  brute  I  have  been. 
I  promise,  darling,  I  promise  anything  and  everything 
you  ask."  He  pacified  her  with  caresses,  soothed  her 
with  gentle  kisses. 

"And  you'll  do  your  level  best,  Dick,  in  your  work? 
If  you  are  successful,  dear,  it  will  make  my  cross  so 
much  easier  to  bear." 

"I  promise,"  he  said  solemnly. 

Quiet  and  at  peace  at  last,  she  lay  in  his  arms.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  certain  abandon  and  sur- 
render in  her  inertia  which  she  had  never  manifested 
before.  His  passion  leapt  into  life  anew.  He  wanted  to 
whisper  in  her  ear  and  ask  her  whether  at  last  she 
loved  him  fully.  But  some  quality  of  awe,  a  look  of 
divine  innocence  in  her  face,  held  him  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"So  you  have  come,"  Earlcote  said.  He  received 
Betty  in  a  room  which  she  had  never  been  in  before. 
He  was  sitting  in  front  of  an  open  pine- wood  fire  which 
tossed  and  writhed  in  fantastic  shapes  as  it  sent  showers 
of  fiery  rain  chimneyward.  It  was  at  dusk  when  Betty 
entered  the  room,  and  the  wood-fire  alone  illuminated  the 
gaunt-looking,  wainscoted  apartment.  Gigantic  shadows, 
lean  and  ghostly  looking,  flitted  across  the  room.  Deep 
in  its  recesses,  or  in  another  apartment  which  opened 
into  this,  crowded  denser  shadows  clustering  about  old 
mahogany  which  reared  itself  upward  in  magnificent 
but  twilight-masked  shapes. 

"So  you  have  come,"  Earlcote  repeated.  "I  did  not 
expect  you  before  your  year  of  grace  was  up." 

Betty,  upon  conciliation  bent,  began : 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  give  me  a  year  of  grace." 

"Not  kind  at  all,"  Earlcote  interrupted  her  tartly. 
"Why  did  you  come  before  the  year  was  up  ?" 

"Because  I  told  you  that  I  would  come  as  soon  as 
Richard  was  well." 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that?" 

Betty  bit  her  lip.  She  reminded  herself  that  under 
every  circumstance  she  must  keep  a  grip  upon  her 
temper. 

Earlcote  continued,  roughly: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  come  to  me  now.  Because, 
like  most  folks,  if  a  disagreeable  task  is  before  you,  you 
prefer  getting  through  with  it  to  having  it  hang  over 

429 


380         THE    VOICE    OF    THE   HEART 

your  head.  Conversely,  I  was  willing  to  give  you  the 
year  of  grace  because  it  prolonged  my  pleasurable 
anticipation." 

Betty  made  an  heroic  effort  not  to  show  the  alarm 
that  was  agitating  her. 

"It  is  possible,"  she  said,  "that  I  was  not  absolutely 
truthful.  Perhaps  I  came  so  soon  because  I  hoped  that 
you  would  be  merciful." 

"Merciful?" 

"And  annul  our  marriage." 

"Haven't  I  explained  to  you  why  I  married  you?" 

"Yes,  and  for  precisely  that  reason  I  beg  of  you  to 
let  me  off.  Surely,  joy  and  happiness  will  be  better  de- 
velopers of  my  voice  than  fear  and  unhappiness." 

"Sincerity  in  thinking  will  be  the  best  developer  pos- 
sible for  your  voice."  Earlcote  leaned  forward  and  shot 
out  his  hand  at  Betty  as  was  his  habit.  She  forced  her- 
self not  to  show  a  tremor  as  it  lay  near  her,  not  a  yard 
away,  illuminated  by  the  blood-red  glow  of  the  fire  into 
a  thing  of  hideous  weirdness.  "You  are  one  of  those 
women  whom  pride  and  self-conceit  keep — sometimes 
for  the  length  of  their  entire  life — from  being  sincere 
with  themselves." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  In  spite  of  her  resolutions,  de- 
fiance crept  into  Betty's  voice. 

"Fear  and  unhappiness,"  Earlcote  fairly  hissed  out 
the  words  Betty  had  used.  "What  you  meant  was  not 
fear  and  unhappiness.  It  was  terror  and  loathing. 
But  because  you  hope  to  mollify  me  you  substituted 
words  intended  to  quicken  my  pity  without  causing  me 
annoyance.  Well,  am  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  Betty  said,  quietly,  "you  are  right.  And  surely, 
if  there  is  a  grain  of  manliness  in  you,  you  must  realize 
that  to  force  me  to  marry  you  with  this  feeling  against 
you  is  monstrous." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         431 

An  intolerable  nervousness  swept  over  Betty.  To 
quiet  herself,  she  began  walking  up  and  down  the  long, 
gloomy  apartment. 

"You  will  release  me,"  she  cried,  "won't  you?  Oh, 
1  am  sure  that  the  hourly  torture  in  which  I  lived  has 
made  a  change  in  my  voice.  Hasn't  it?" 

"No,  it  has  not." 

"You  have  not  heard  me  sing." 

"I  am  hearing  you  talk — entreat.  No,  no,  my  estimate 
of  you  is  right.  One  thing  only,  one  thing  can  change 
you.  The  consciousness  of  sinning." 

"Sinning  ?"  Betty  flared  up  at  last.  "Sinning  ?  I  and 
sin?  Do  you  remember  the  day  I  vowed  that  I  would 
rather  let  Richard  die  than  marry  you?  I  went  away 
from  here  with  the  intention  of  selling  myself — you 
understand — rather  than  marry  you,  and  at  the  last 
moment,  call  it  what  you  will — education,  instinct,  moral- 
ity or  breeding — made  it  impossible  for  me  to  commit 
that  particular  sin." 

"Nevertheless,  I  tell  you  that  you  are  about  to  commit 
a  sin  more  grievous  than  the  one  you  ran  away  from." 
Earlcote's  face,  smirking  and  leering  at  her  in  the  now 
almost  dark  apartment,  was  hideous  to  see.  "You  will 
realize  what  a  deep-dyed  sin  it  is  to  marry  such  as  me 
when  you  love  such  as  Richard  when  I  hold  you  in  my 
arms  the  first  time." 

"Don't!  Don't!"  Betty  stretched  out  her  hands  in 
supplication. 

"That,  Betty — for  you  are  my  wife  and  therefore 
henceforth  we  must  be  Betty  and  Stanley  to  each  other — > 
that,  Betty,  is  the  greatest  sin  a  woman  can  commit, 
because  it  is  a  sin  against  nature,  while  the  other,  the 
conventional  sin,  is  a  sin  against  society  only.  That, 
also,  you  will  comprehend  by  and  by." 

Betty  held  up  her  hands  as  if  to  shield  herself  against 


432          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

a  physical  onslaught.  "Don't!"  she  cried,  wildly.  "Oh, 
don't!" 

"We  grow  through  sinning,"  Earlcote  continued,  ruth- 
lessly. "The  sinless  person,  or  he  who  thinks  himself 
sinless,  stagnates,  remains  stationary,  immature  and  un- 
developed. It  is  through  realizing  our  imperfections, 
through  realizing  that  sin  is  the  common  heritage  from 
which  none  is  immune,  that  we  expand  and  become 
strong." 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  Betty  cried. 

Earlcote  disregarded  her  feeble  interpolation.  He 
continued : 

"I  gave  you  a  chance  to  sin,  to  commit  a  sin  of  a  kind, 
a  sin  which,  insignificant  and  small  as  compared  to  the 
sin  of  being  my  wife,  would,  nevertheless,  have  achieved 
the  result  I  am  anxious  to  obtain,  since  it  would  have 
troubled  your  conscience." 

The  man's  cold-blooded  devilishness  sent  the  blood 
simmering  to  Betty's  head. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Would  any  mature  woman  ask  that  question  ?"  Earl- 
cote laughed  long  and  hideously.  "I  mean  this.  To  what 
purpose  did  I  give  you  a  year  of  grace  ?  I  counted  upon 
the  fact  that  when  you  told  Richard  Pryce  of  your  mar- 
riage to  me  he  would  beg  you  to  go  away  with  him. 
Did  he?" 

"Yes,"  Betty  faltered. 

"But  you  didn't  go.    You  refused.    Why?    Morality?" 

"Honesty,  common,  every-day  honesty,"  Betty  said, 
indignantly.  "Apart  from  the  immorality  of  such  an 
act,  what  would  I  have  been  but  a  common  cheat  if  I 
had  broken  my  pact  with  you?" 

"What  is  honesty  but  morality?"  Earlcote  rasped. 
"It  is  one  and  the  same  thing.  In  Anglo-Saxon  coun- 
tries only  is  the  word  'morality'  used  to  denote  one  par- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         433 

ticular  brand  of  honesty.  You  see,  you  threw  away  the 
golden  chance  I  beneficently  gave  you  of  committing  an 
agreeable  sin — nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  force  upon 
you  a  disagreeable  sin." 

The  man's  deviltry  was  amazing.  Betty  sat  mute  and 
helpless  and  filled  with  terror  that  verged  on  panic  before 
his  laughter,  which  tripped  on  and  on,  till  her  nerves 
seemed  to  crack  like  worn-out  violin  strings.  Suddenly 
her  inertia  dropped  away.  She  became  terribly,  keenly 
alive  to  the  situation.  She  began  to  implore  Earlcote 
to  be  merciful.  She  used  every  possible  and  impossible 
argument.  She  repeated  herself;  she  dragged  in  irrele- 
vant arguments ;  she  lost  control  of  her  nerves ;  she  fell 
down  on  her  knees  before  Earlcote;  and  to  that  abase- 
ment she  added  the  further  humiliation  contained  in 
frantic  words  and  frenzied  gestures  such  as  only  extreme 
and  supreme  terror  can  wring  from  the  human  heart. 

Finally,  receiving  no  reply,  she  looked  up  and  saw 
Earlcote's  eyes  fastened  upon  her  face  in  a  sardonic 
stare.  Something  in  his  look  warned  her  against  further 
abasing  herself.  Haggard  and  pale,  she  staggered  to 
her  feet  and  began  brushing  the  dust  from  her  skirt 
where  she  had  knelt. 

"Well?"  Earlcote  inquired.  "Do  you  submit  to  the 
inevitable?  Do  you  consent  to  be  my  wife  in  fact  as 
well  as  in  name?" 

"Apparently,"  Betty  replied,  coldly,  "there  is  nothing 
else  to  do."  A  sudden  resolution  flooded  her  veins. 
Other  women  had  endured  and  suffered.  Women  had 
been  burned  alive  at  the  stake.  Women  had  been 
drowned  for  witches.  Women  in  all  ages  had  endured 
torture  in  every  form  and  manner.  She  must  not  fall 
below  the  example  set  by  her  sisters  in  suffering  through- 
out bygone  ages.  She  must  acquit  herself  decently  and 
with  dignity. 


434>         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

With  that  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind,  she  walked 
with  outward  composure,  her  head  held  high  like  any 
queen's  on  her  way  to  execution,  into  the  dim  apartment 
beyond,  toward  which  Earlcote  pointed;  and  the  huge, 
canopied  four-poster  looming  up  out  of  the  darkness 
seemed  to  her  terrified  imagination  a  scaffold  rather  than 
a  bed. 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  its  forbidding  pile 
having  lain  fallow  and  in  yellow  desolation  all  summer, 
blossomed  out  that  October  in  its  usual  autumn  dress  of 
delft-colored  posters,  on  which  appeared  the  notices  of 
the  advance  sales  of  seats  for  subscribers  and  the  general 
public. 

Side  by  side  were  announcements  of  the  first  appear- 
ances in  New  York  of  Betty  Earlcote,  as  Isolde,  and  of 
Richard  Pryce,  "The  world's  most  intellectual  pianist," 
at  the  opening  Sunday  night  concert. 

Two  men,  both  groomed  to  a  finish,  and  marked  by 
the  unmistakable  air  which  distinguishes  successful  and 
prosperous  artists,  stood  studying  the  two  neighboring 
posters  from  different  angles.  Suddenly,  shifting  their 
positions,  their  eyes  met. 

"Richard  Pryce,  as  I  live  by  bread !" 

"How  d'ye  do,  Archie  !* 

Richard,  whom  Betty  had  never  told  of  Archie's  per- 
fidy, extended  his  hand  more  graciously  than  he  would 
have  done  of  old.  Time  abrases  certain  impressions, 
and  Richard,  arriving  home  after  five  years  abroad,  was 
almost  glad  to  see  a  familiar  face.  His  graciousness, 
moreover,  was  authoritative.  Of  the  two,  Richard  was 
now  by  far  the  more  famous.  Heralded  by  every  critic 
of  reputation  on  the  Continent  and  in  England  as  the 
pianist  whose  virtuosity  and  intelligence  were  bound  to 
make  him  eclipse  all  living  pianists,  his  manner,  though 
unassuming  and  quiet,  showed  that  calm,  invincible, 

435 


436         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

tranquil  assurance  worn  only  by  men  and  women  whose 
position,  social  or  artistic,  is  absolutely  unassailable. 

Richard's  quick  eye  noted  certain  changes  in  the 
Adonis  of  the  stage,  who,  to  combat  the  ravages  of  time 
and  fast  living,  was  now  forced  to  resort  to  painting 
his  face  when  on  the  street,  like  any  demi-mondaine  or 
superannuated  beauty. 

"Four  years  at  least  since  we've  met,"  Archie  com- 
mented. He  was  secretly  a  little  envious  of  Richard's 
manner,  proclaiming  as  it  did  the  man  who  has  out- 
distanced all  competitors  in  his  own  particular  walk  of 
life.  Archie  Telfer,  who  had  outdistanced  others  only 
by  the  prowess  of  his  personal  beauty,  was  rapidly  de- 
clining from  the  zenith  to  the  nadir  of  his  reputation. 

Richard  corrected  him. 

"Five  years,  Archie.  I've  been  abroad  five  years. 
Think  of  it !  Studied  for  four  years  and  have  been  con- 
certizing  one  year." 

"And  now  you  will  tour  our  savage  Continent." 

"Our  savage  Continent,"  Richard  smiled,  gravely, 
"stands  for  shekels.  The  enlightened  Continent  from 
which  I  have  just  come  stands  for  fame.  I've  achieved 
the  one,  and  now  I  am  coming  home  to  gather  in  the 
other." 

"So  even  you  have  not  wholly  escaped  the  mercenary 
taint,"  Archie  mused.  "In  the  olden  days  you  were  all 
moonshine  and  romance." 

"Not  wholly — nor  is  the  mercenary  taint  very  deep 
now.  But  lack  of  money,  Archie,  caused  a  great  grief 
in  my  life,  years  ago — and  now  that  I  have  the  earning 
capacity,  I  am  going  to  earn  money — all  I  can.  Heaven 
knows  how  and  when  I  may  use  it." 

"Heavens,"  said  Archie,  "that  sounds  quite  tragic." 
He  pulled  his  still  handsome  face  into  a  grave  pattern. 
"By  the  way,  that  was  a  curious  ending  to  your 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         437 

romance.  How  in  all  the  world  did  little  Betty  Garside, 
whom  they  now  acclaim  to  be  the  world's  greatest 
Isolde,  come  to  marry  that  beast  of  an  Earlcote,  after 
being  engaged  to  you  for  a  year  r" 

"Are  you  sure  her  marriage  marked  the  end  of  our 
romance?"  Richard  asked  gently.  "I  have  never  con- 
sidered that  it  did.  I  have  always  considered  her  mar- 
riage to  Earlcote  merely  as  an  interlude.  Life  would 
have  been  insupportable  had  I  taken  any  other  view  of 
the  affair.  I  believe  that  our  romance — Betty's  and 
mine — is  yet  to  come." 

"Not  really?  You  interest  me,"  Archie  exclaimed. 
"You  know,  my  dear  chap,  I  myself  was  a  little  smitten 
with  Betty  Garside — not  very  deeply,  you  understand, 
but  I  paid  her  the  homage  which  every  man  ought  to 
pay  every  pretty  woman.  I  fell  just  a  little  in  love  with 
her.  By  the  by — I  cannot  comprehend  how  she  can  play 
'Carmen'  ?  And  they  say  she  is  magnificent — greater 
than  Calve." 

"Why  shouldn't  she  be?  You  heard  her  sing  that 
night  at  the  Direktor's.  Her  voice  was  incomparable 
even  then.  And  now  she  has  had  the  benefit  of  Earlcote's 
training." 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  her  voice,  Pryce.  I'm  speaking 
of  the  part  as  a  part.  No  singer  can  make  a  success  of 
'Carmen'  unless  she  acts  as  magnificently  as  she  sings. 
And  consider,  Betty  Garside,  all  snow  and  ice — playing 
'Carmen,'  that  'she-rose  out  of  hell,'  as  Swinburne  called 
her.  Can  you  reconcile  the  two  ?" 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"We  will  see  and  hear  to-morrow  evening,"  he  said. 
"They've  changed  the  bill  from  'Tristan  and  Isolde'  to 
'Carmen'  on  the  opening  night.  Isolde  follows  two 
nights  later.  I  suppose  you  will  be  present  at  both 
operas  ?" 


438         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"You  forget,  I  am  less  fortunate  than  yourself," 
Archie  replied.  "I  am  playing  Mark  Antony  in  a  revi- 
val of  'Julius  Caesar.'  So  I  won't  be  able  to  be  on  hand 
at  the  opera." 

"I  condole  with  you." 

"But,  as  I  work  while  you  play  and  play  while  you 
work,  I  will  be  able  to  hear  you  at  Sunday  night's  con- 
cert. I  look  forward  to  that  with  pleasure." 

"So  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  Richard,  indifferently. 
His  face  was  wholly  devoid  of  expression. 

The  two  men  parted.  Richard  crossed  the  wide  lobby 
of  the  opera  house,  and  halted  before  an  enormous  frame 
showing  Betty  as  "Carmen"  in  every  conceivable  posture 
and  scene.  To  Archie,  Richard  had  spoken  with  some- 
thing like  indifference  of  Betty  as  an  artist;  in  reality, 
he  felt  the  most  acute  and  poignant  interest.  He,  too, 
had  his  misgivings  as  to  her  ability  to  portray  "Carmen." 
His  little  Betty,  so  pure  and  white  and  innocent — how 
was  she  to  play  convincingly  the  part  of  the  most  infa- 
mous of  all  operatic  heroines? 

The  past  seemed  very  real.  Was  Betty  happy  in  her 
success  as  an  artist?  Had  she  overcome  her  aversion 
for  Earlcote?  Had  she,  perhaps,  forgotten  himself, 
Richard?  She  had  interdicted  correspondence,  and  he 
had  had  no  direct  news  from  her  for  years.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  that  the  famous  Betty  Earlcote  should 
waste  any  thought,  any  heartburnings  on  him.  Then  he 
remembered  that,  in  his  way,  he  was  quite  as  famous 
as  she  in  hers,  and  that  it  was  possible  that  she  was 
entertaining  like  doubts  of  him. 

But  after  hearing  her  in  "Carmen"  the  next  evening, 
a  terrible  unrest  and  doubt  came  to  him.  A  woman  of 
Betty's  character  and  temperament — a  woman  all  pristine 
purity  and  single-mindedness,  who  could  give  so  vivid 
and  compelling  a  portrayal  of  a  woman  whose  sinister 


439 


motives  and  callous  diablerie  made  her  the  exact  anti- 
thesis of  herself,  was  indeed  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
prima  donnas.  A  few  nights  later  he  heard  her  as 
Isolde,  heard  her  unmatchable  and  bell-like  voice  sing 
with  a  crescendo  of  passion  and  abandon  that  made  the 
audience  delirious  with  appreciative  joy — and  terrified 
him  beyond  measure. 

Was  this  the  same  Betty  he  had  known  ?  Was  all  that 
passionate  outpouring  of  love,  that  sweetly  feminine  sur- 
render of  herself  merely  histrionic  art?  He  could  not 
believe  it.  Carmen  had  been  a  tour  de  force.  Isolde, 
however,  must  be  a  subtle  reading  of  the  feelings  agitat- 
ing her  own  heart,  and,  himself  agitated  with  a  profound 
and  searching  jealousy,  he  began  to  cast  about  for  the 
causes  and  the  personality  that  had  worked  this  amazing 
change  in  Betty.  Was  it  Earlcote  himself  ?  Was  she  in 
love  with  her  husband? 

Richard  went  to  his  hotel  that  night  in  a  state  of 
supreme  wretchedness.  Through  the  entire  five  years  of 
their  separation  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  her.  No 
other  woman  had  stirred  him,  none  had  moved  them. 
Friends  he  had  made  among  women,  but  Betty,  alone 
among  women,  seemed  to  him  to  possess  the  ineffable 
charm  which  always  brought  to  mind  a  flower;  Betty, 
alone  among  women,  had  appealed  to  his  manhood.  As 
time  went  by,  his  desire  sank  somewhat  into  the  back- 
ground. But  his  love  for  her  was  all  the  more  secure, 
because  purged.  He  thought  of  her  almost  as  if  she 
were  dead,  once  the  detestable  vision  of  imagining  her 
in  Earlcote's  arms  became  less  obstreperous.  But  now, 
having  seen  her  in  the  glory  of  her  mature  womanhood, 
the  world  at  her  feet,  singing  in  a  voice  whose  purity 
was  unapproachable,  herself  instinct  with  every  emotion 
of  womanhood,  his  passion  leapt  to  the  fore  again  and 
his  jealousy  of  Earlcote  assumed  dimensions  and  a  viril- 


440         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ity  which  beggared  the  proportions  of  his  jealousy  in 
the  past. 

Richard  spent  a  sleepless  night.  When  morning  came, 
his  nerves  were  frayed,  jangling,  raw  things,  and  his 
brain  a  soppy  something,  like  a  wet  sponge,  that  lodged 
in  the  rear  of  his  head.  It  was  the  day  of  his  opening 
recital — Saturday — the  day  preceding  the  concert  at  the 
opera  house  for  which  he  was  billed.  He  telephoned  his 
management  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  play  that 
afternoon,  and  went  back  to  bed,  harassed  by  the  most 
absurd  fears,  and  when  his  excited  manager  succeeded 
in  forcing  his  way  into  Richard's  room,  he  found  Richard 
in  a  state  bordering  on  hysteria. 

"Vot  has  habbened?"  Herr  Hengstler,  being  a  South 
German,  rounded  off  the  sharp  corners  of  some  dentals 
and  labials  and  gave  a  raw  edge  to  others. 

Richard  said,  violently: 

"I  cannot  play." 

"For  vy?" 

"Because  I  am  sick.  I  heard  Betty  Garside  sing  last 
night." 

"Almost  could  I  inver  vrom  zhat  zhat  you  are  seek 
because  you  heard  Betty  Earlcote  seeng,"  said  Herr 
Hengstler,  mopping  his  dome-like  pate  with  an  enormous 
linen  handkerchief. 

Richard  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "don't  you,  that  she  and  I  were 
engaged  to  be  married  years  ago  ?" 

"Booh!  Vot  apout  zhat?"  Herr  Hengstler  meant  to 
say  "Pooh,"  but  invariably  produced  the  monosyllable 
supposed  to  be  used  in  frightening  the  timid.  "Booh — 
divorced  beoble  hear  each  other  seeng  and  blay  and  eet 
does  not  make  them  seek." 

"I'm  sick,"  Richard  continued,  "because,  compared  to 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         441 

her  I  am  a  miserable  dummy,  a  ninny,  a  know-nothing. 
I'll  not  play." 

"Py  heafen,  you  must  and  veel  play!"  shouted  Herr 
Hengstler,  the  perspiration,  of  which  all  traces  had  been 
finally  mopped  away,  breaking  out  afresh  in  great  beads 
upon  his  brow.  "You  must  and  veel !  Do  you  vant  to 
ruin  me  ?  Zhink  of  zhe  adverteesements,  a  dollar  a  line 
haf  I  bayed  for  some,  and  zhe  bress  noteeces." 

"I  don't  care  a  rap  whether  I  ruin  you  or  not,"  Richard 
responded,  amiably,  "I  am  not  going  to  ruin  my  reputa- 
tion by  playing  when  I  know  in  advance  that  I  am  going 
to  be  a  dire,  dismal  failure." 

"For  vy  ?    You  a  vailure  ?    For  vy  ?" 

"I  worked  all  these  years  in  hopes  of  having 
Mrs.  Earlcote  hear  me  play  some  day,"  Richard  contin- 
ued, "and  now  I  know,  after  hearing  her  sing,  that  she 
won't  bother  to  hear  me  at  all.  She's  forgotten  me." 

"And  pecause  a  girl  vot  you  were  engaged  to  half  a 
century  ago  isn't  bining  to  deazh  for  you,  you  refuse 
to  blay  ?  You  are  grazy — Nehmen  Sie  es  mir  nicht  uebel, 
you  are  grazy." 

"Don't  you  dare  say  that  to  me  again,"  Richard 
shouted,  sitting  up  in  bed.  "I  know  I  would  play  la- 
mentably this  afternoon,  my  nerves  are  shattered  by  a 
sleepless  night,  and  I  won't  have  her  hear  me  play  like 
a  fourth-rate  automaton." 

"Fun  moment  you  say  she  ees  not  goming,  fun  moment 
you  say  she  ees,"  roared  fat  Herr  Hengstler.  "Vot  eees 
eet,  zhen?  You  talk  like  an  hysterical  woman.  Come, 
pull  yourself  together,  or  you  weel  preak  down  at  the 
beeano  zhis  afternoon." 

"What?"  Richard  vaulted  out  of  bed  and  confronted 
the  amazed  Hengstler,  indignantly.  "Did  you  ever  know 
me  to  break  down?  Do  you  think  I  lack  self-control? 


442         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Oh,  yes,  I  will  play  this  afternoon.  I  will  play,  if  only 
to  show  you  that  I  never  break  down.  I'll  be  down  with 
brain  fever  to-morrow,  or  typhus,  or  something  from  the 
diabolical  strain  you  are  subjecting  me  to — you  inhuman 
threshing  machine — but  I'll  play,  I'll  play,  I'll  play!" 

And,  forthwith,  Richard  sat  down  at  the  piano,  accou- 
tered  in  only  his  pajamas,  and  began  playing  a  rhapsody 
by  Liszt. 

The  astounded  Hengstler,  too  astounded  to  mop  away 
the  beads  of  perspiration  that  were  purling  down  his  fat 
face,  held  up  his  hands  in  thanksgiving  at  the  unexpected 
turn  events  had  taken  and  at  the  total  lack  of  consistency 
and  self-control  of  all  artists,  European  and  American 
alike,  and  silently  made  his  way  from  the  room,  believ- 
ing, like  a  wise  man,  that  it  is  best  to  leave  well  enough 
alone. 

Richard  played  that  afternoon  in  the  concert  hall  as 
he  had  never  played  before,  but  to  him  it  seemed  that  he 
was  touching  not  keys  of  a  piano  but  nerves  as  raw  and 
palpitating  as  his  own.  He  endured  torments  while  he 
played — but  he  played,  bowing  automatically  between 
numbers  to  acknowledge  the  enthusiastic  and  uproarious 
applause. 

When  he  had  played  his  last  number,  he  refused  abso- 
lutely to  give  an  encore.  Hengstler  besought  him,  in 
tears,  not  to  merit  the  charge  of  being  "stingy"  upon 
this,  his  first  performance,  but  he  was  not  to  be  moved. 
He  was,  in  fact,  in  a  state  of  nervous  collapse.  He 
threw  a  horseshoe  of  flowers  at  his  valet  who  ventured 
to  hand  him  his  muffler  before  he  wanted  it,  and  he 
mortally  offended  a  critic  of  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
substantial  evening  papers  in  the  city  by  telling  him  that 
the  entire  press  of  New  York  City  was  subsidized  by 
the  billionaires  and  the  opinion  of  not  a  single  critic 
was  worth  a  pot  of  beans.  Poor,  fat,  perspiring  Heng- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         443 

stler   unwound   yards    of   mispronounced    eloquence    to 
pacify  the  irate  critic. 

Still  plunged  in  unaccountable  depression  of  spirits, 
Richard  then  motored  through  the  park,  and  when  he 
reached  his  hotel  the  clerk  handed  him  a  letter  on  very 
thick,  white  notepaper,  addressed  to  himself  in  Betty's 
hand.  And,  lo !  suddenly  the  world  was  bathed  in  glory, 
and  even  effete  critics  of  a  subsidized  press  seemed  kith 
and  kin.  Under  an  electric  light  suspended  from  a  plush- 
covered  pillar  he  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  its 
contents  eagerly. 

"DICKY — You  have  heard  me  sing-  twice  and  didn't 
show  me  the  courtesy  of  calling  to  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  my  voice.  I  am  writing  to  ask  you  to  call, 
because,  having  heard  you  play  only  once,  I  want  to  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  your  playing. — BETTY. 

"P.S.  Call  either  to-night  or  to-morrow  at  six  o'clock 
sharp." 

Richard  rushed  from  the  lobby  like  a  madman,  hailed 
a  taxi  and,  within  a  few  minutes,  found  himself  at  the 
door  of  Betty's  apartment-house.  The  clock  on  Times 
Square  pointed  to  six  o'clock  as  he  followed  the  maid 
through  the  hall  into  a  small,  old  rose  and  gold  reception- 
room. 

The  room  bore  the  imprint  of  a  woman's  personality, 
but  it  was  a  personality  which  he  did  not  know.  A  mass 
of  bibelots  were  displayed  on  a  table  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  little  porcelain  shepherdesses,  tea-cups,  an 
egg-shell  vase,  a  Chinese  head-dress  profusely  orna- 
mented with  seed-pearls  and  feathers  of  the  king  bird, 
and  a  host  of  other  obj'ets  de  vertu  such  as  his  Betty 
would  formerly  have  passed  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders. A  filmy  lace  handkerchief,  which  she  had  evidently 
dropped,  lay  under  the  table.  He  picked  it  up,  noted 


'444         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

that  it  was  scented,  though  ever  so  faintly,  with  violets 
and  that  her  initials  were  embroidered  above  the  point 
lace  edge,  not  once,  but  repeatedly,  the  individual  let- 
ters joining  hands  rather  than  interlacing,  so  as  to  form 
an  embroidered  border  above  the  point-lace  edging. 
Richard  read  the  B.  E.  B.  E.  repeated  endless-chain 
fashion,  over  and  over  again,  and  it  struck  him  as  singu- 
lar that  the  little  Betty  he  had  known,  so  artless  and 
simple  in  her  tastes  and  shrinkingly  unassuming,  should 
own  a  handkerchief  such  as  this. 

He  sat  down,  with  the  handkerchief  in  his  hand  and 
contemplated  it  gravely  for  a  long  time.  That  together 
with  her  stationery,  the  sea-green,  ermine-lined  coat  of 
which  he  had  a  glimpse  as  the  maid  carried  it  through 
the  hall,  all  spoke  of  a  Betty  very  different  from  the 
Betty  he  had  known.  Her  stage  presence  had  dazed  him, 
her  voice  and  beauty  had  intoxicated  and  inflamed  him, 
and  now  the  little  intimacies  of  toilet  and  taste  of  which 
he  was  being  vouchsafed  a  glimpse,  frightened  him.  He 
wished  he  had  not  come.  He  feared  disillusionment  and 
chid  himself  for  being  disloyal  for  harboring  the  thought. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  she  had  entered  the 
room. 

He  rose  and  looked  at  her,  fear  in  his  eyes,  a  multiple, 
compound  fear  which  he  could  not  have  anaylzed.  There 
was  no  fear  in  her  eyes,  only  friendliness,  the  same 
sweet  friendliness  as  of  old.  Her  figure  remained  un- 
changed. It  was  as  girlish  and  svelte  as  ever,  but  her 
face  showed  the  firm,  strong  lines  of  a  woman  who  had 
suffered  much,  and  those  lines,  which  in  no  way  marred 
her  beauty  but  merely  gave  it  strength  and  character, 
touched  him  as  deeply  as  her  voice  had  touched  him. 

She  smiled,  stretched  out  both  hands,  and  said: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  that  you  are  glad  to 
see  me?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         445 

"Glad !"  he  echoed  rather  asininely. 

"Glad — yes,  Dicky.  And,  Dicky,  you  disappointed  me 
horribly  at  your  recital." 

He  flushed. 

"Not  as  bad  as  that,  I  hope?" 

"Dicky,  Dicky — don't  you  remember  that  you  and  I 
agreed  you  would  enter  from  the  left  side  of  the  stage, 
so  that  the  audience  would  not  perceive  the  slight  Tower- 
of-Pisa-like  formation  of  your  nose?  And,  after  all, 
you  weakly  followed  time-honored  tradition  and  came  in 
from  the  right  side." 

Richard  laughed.  Embroidered  handkerchiefs  and 
bibelots  to  the  contrary,  this  was  the  same  old  Betty  he 
had  known  and  loved  and  still  loved. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  tender  voice,  "you  are 
adorable." 

"I've  been  told  so  before,"  she  laughed,  "by  yourself 
And  your  playing,  Dick — your  playing  .  .  ." 

"Say  nothing,  Betty,"  he  implored.  "I  didn't  want  to 
play.  I  was  in  no  mood  to  play.  I  just  knew  you 
would  come,  and  I  knew  I  would  play  abominably,  and 
I  did." 

"Abominably?  Oh,  Dick — you  played  marvelously — 
marvelously."  She  stood  facing  him  across  a  small 
satin-wood  table.  -"Didn't  you  know,  Dicky,  honor 
bright,  that  you  played  ravishingly  ?" 

"Really?  You're  not  just  saying  it?"  he  asked 
incredulously. 

"No,  Dicky.  Other  pianists  play  with  their  fingers, 
but  you  play  with  your  naked  soul.  What  did  George 
Sand  call  Chopin — Velvet  Fingers  ?  I  think,  Dick,  I  will 
call  you  Magic  Soul.  Oh,  Dick — your  life  was  worth 
saving,  wasn't  it?" 

Her  sweetness,  her  charm,  so  well  remembered,  yet 
imbued  with  a  new,  indescribable  something,  sent  the 


446         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

blood  pulsing  through  his  veins.  He  walked  around  the 
table  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Betty,  Betty,"  he  stammered,  "let  me  kiss  you.  I'm 
more  madly  in  love  with  you  than  ever.  Betty,  Betty,  all 
these  years  I  have  lived  with  your  image,  yours  only,  in 
my  heart.  Why  did  you  send  for  me?  Was  it  right  to 
let  me  come  here,  to  ask  me  to  come,  if  you  and  I  are  to 
treat  each  other  like  mere  friends?  Betty,  Betty,  why 
don't  you  answer  me?" 

She  stood  with  lowered  eyes,  on  her  lips  a  sweet  smile 
the  subtler  inwardness  of  which  evaded  him. 

"Betty,  may  I  kiss  you  ?" 

"No." 

"Betty — it  is  not  for  me  to  question  your  denial,  but 
answer  me  one  question  truthfully.  Surely,  a  woman 
who  sings  Isolde  as  you  do,  cannot  take  offense — at — 
love?" 

"That  is  quite  true." 

Still  the  strange  smile  hovered  upon  her  lips.  His 
arm  seemed  to  be  raised  by  an  occult  power,  and  he 
crooked  it  into  a  circle  to  steal  it  about  her  waist,  and 
then  the  same  strange  power  seemed  to  push  his  face 
forward,  forward,  to  bring  his  lips  near  and  nearer  and 
still  nearer  to  hers. 

"Betty,"  he  whispered,  "Betty." 

"No,  Dicky,  you  mustn't  kiss  me.  I  am  another  man's 
wife.  Not  on  his  account — but  on  yours  and  mine.  We 
must  not  smirch  our  beautiful  love,  Dick." 

His  arm  fell  limply  to  his  side. 

"Oh,  Betty,"  he  cried,  "I  cannot  give  you  up  again. 
I  won't.  I  gave  you  up  once — but  you're  mine,  you  were 
meant  to  be  mine  by  Nature,  Heaven  and  Providence." 

She  had  contrived  to  place  the  table  between  them 
again. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  quietly,  "that  you  love  me  still, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         447 

for  though  what  you  speak  of  is  passion  and  not  love,  I 
know  now  that  the  two  are  indissoluble.  I  am  glad, 
Dick,  more  glad  than  I  can  say  that  you  still  feel  as 
you  do." 

"Did  you  ever  doubt  me,  Betty?" 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make,  Dick.  Yes,  I  did  doubt 
you.  I  doubted  your  love,  for  five  years  is  a  long,  long 
time  for  a  man  to  remain  true  to  a  recollection.  And  a 
long  time  ago,  Dick,  I  doubted  you  in  another  way — 
although  that,  too,  had  to  do  with  your  love,  and  that 
old  doubt  of  long  ago  has  plagued  and  tormented  me  all 
these  years." 

"What  was  the  doubt?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot  tell  you — not  to-day.  Later  on — perhaps — 
to-day  there  are  too  many  other  things,  things  of  vital 
importance  to  us  both,  to  tell  you." 

"What  things?" 

"Let  us  sit  down."  She  led  the  way  to  two  chairs, 
placed  as  if  for  an  eternal  tete-a-tete,  and  in  following 
her,  he  noticed  the  graceful  undulations  of  her  body,  as 
she  walked.  This,  too,  was  a  new  attribute,  and  he 
wondered  anew  that  the  present  Betty  could  be  so  like 
and  so  unlike  the  Betty  of  the  past.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  that  a  similar  change  had  taken  place  in  himself, 
that  his  exterior,  too,  was  the  conventional,  polished, 
machine-made  exterior  of  the  man  of  the  world  and 
fashion. 

He  seated  himself  beside  her  and  waited  for  her  to 
begin,  leaning  forward  so  that,  if  she  chose,  she  might 
lower  her  voice  in  speaking. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "I  will  have  to  touch  on  some  un- 
pleasant topics.  You  will  forgive  me  for  that  when  we 
get  to  the  end  of  our  talk.  Of  course,  you  remember 
'Kitty  Florence,  alias  Katarina  della  Florenzia  ?" 


448         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Did  he  remember  the  cause  of  his  troubles  and 
tribulations  ? 

"I  saw  her  last  week.    She  called  on  me." 

"You  should  not  have  received  her." 

"I  declined  to  at  first.  She  persevered,  and  finally 
sent  in  a  note  couched  in  terms  so  urgent  and  insistent 
that  I  consented  to  see  her.  And  I  am  very  glad  that  I 
did.  What  do  you  think  she  told  me?" 

"Well?" 

"Dick — you  never  attempted  to  justify  yourself  for 
your  wrongdoing,  and  in  those  days  I  was  such  an  ignor- 
ant, innocent  little  simpleton  that  I  did  not  guess  that 
a  man,  quite  as  much  as  a  woman,  can  be  led  astray.  I 
might  have  judged  you  less  harshly  had  I  known.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"How  could  I  ?  I  couldn't,  you  know,  without  offend- 
ing your  modesty  and  reticence." 

"Well,  Dick,  Kitty  told  me  the  other  day  that  she 
had  been  paid  by  Earlcote  to  bring  about  your  downfall." 

"Incredible!"  Dick  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began 
prancing  up  and  down,  fingers  at  work  in  his  hair,  with 
the  gesture  she  recalled  so  well.  "What  was  the  object?" 

Betty  repeated  the  story  Kitty  had  told  her. 

"She  received  in  return  the  Kasi-Nook,  Earlcote's 
famous  black  opal.  You  remember  the  verse: 

Honestly  come  by, 

Fortune  and  joy, 
And  health  it  will  buy.  . 
Dishonestly  come  by, 

Health,  wealth  and  joy, 
It  will  surely  destroy. 

Well,  Dick,  her  health  is  gone,  and  so  are  her  looks. 
She  is  merely  a  shadow  of  the  Kitty  you  knew.  I'll  not 
go  into  harrowing  details.  Of  course,  loss  of  beauty 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         449 

involved  loss  of  livelihood.  She  was  reduced  to  such  a 
state  that  she  was  forced  to  sell  her  jewels,  among  them 
being  the  Kasi-Nook.  And  now,  Dick,  a  strange  thing 
happened.  The  other  gems  she  sold  without  difficulty, 
though  at  a  loss.  But  the  Kasi-Nook  no  jeweler  she 
went  to,  and  she  tells  me  she  visited  a  baker's  dozen, 
was  willing  to  purchase.  The  reason  they  gave  for  their 
unwillingness  was  the  bad  reputation  of  the  jewel.  Then 
she  remembered  that  Earlcote  had  warned  her  when  she 
insisted  on  this  particular  gem  as  the  purchase  price 
for  the  infamy  he  wished  her  to  perpetrate.  Well,  Dicky, 
to  phrase  it  vulgarly,  she  lost  her  nerve.  We  stage-folks, 
they  say,  are  all,  more  or  less,  superstitious.  At  any 
rate,  though  it  sounds  like  bally  nonsense,  Kitty  became 
so  terrified  that  she  thought  the  curse  might  still  be 
lifted  from  her  if  she  came  and  made  a  clean  breast  of 
the  whole,  miserable,  sordid  story  to  me." 

Betty  drew  a  small,  shagreen  bag  from  her  bodice. 
This  she  opened  and  took  from  it  a  gem  which  she  held 
out  to  Dick  on  the  palm  of  her  right  hand. 

"Behold,"  she  said,  laughing,  "the  hoodoo  gem  of 
Australia — the  great  black  opal,  the  Kasi-Nook." 

"Gad,  but  it  is  beautiful."  Richard  surveyed  it  with 
intense  interest.  "You  weren't  foolish  enough  to  allow 
her  to  get  rid  of  it  to  you  were  you?"  he  queried 
abruptly. 

Betty  laughed. 

"Yes,  Dicky,  since  I  am  on  the  stage,  I,  too,  have 
grown  superstitious,  and  you  must  remember,  dear,  that 
the  Kasi-Nook  confers  happiness  on  them  that  come  by 
it  honestly.  Now  poor  Kitty  gave  it  to  me  in  hopes  of 
getting  rid  of  the  curse — so  that  I  have  come  by  it  not 
merely  honestly,  but  have  done  a  good  deed  in 
acquiring  it." 

Dick  asked  in  amazement, 


450          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"You  don't  really  believe  in  this  tommyrot,  do  you?" 

But  she  would  not  be  serious  with  him.    She  jested, 

she  cajoled,  she  teased,  she  pretended  now  to  one  thing 

and  now  to  another.    As  he  listened  to  her  his  eyes  grew 

very  tender. 

"Dearest,"  he  murmured,  "you  are  adorable." 
"Hush,  you  must  not  call  me  that  just  yet." 
"Just  yet?" 

"Did  you  really  think,  Dicky,  that  I  asked  you  to  come 
and  see  me  just  to  torment  you,  just  to  let  you  see,  you 
know,  what  you  had  lost?  For  I  am  worth  while  now, 
am  I  not,  Dicky  ?"  She  retreated  from  both  his  eyes  and 
hands.  "And  that,  Dicky,  is  where  the  black  opal  comes 
in.  It  is  going  to  bring  good  luck  to  you  and  me.  And 
don't  you  see,  Dicky,  the  very  fact  that  it  has  given 
me  this  belief  means  that  the  battle  is  half  won?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  battle  you  are  speaking  of,  Betty, 
but  I  do  know  that  there  is  soon  going  to  be  an  almighty 
scrap  between  that — that — between  your  husband  and 
myself." 

"No,  Dicky,  you  must  leave  it  to  me  to  deal  with  him." 
"Absolutely  not,  Betty.  Henceforth  I  am  going  to 
take  matters  into  my  hands.  I  am  not  the  weak,  roman- 
tic, half-sick  boy  I  was  five  years  ago."  He  was  tramping 
the  room,  his  fingers  busy  with  his  heavy  crop  of  hair, 
and  to  all  intents  he  looked  not  a  whit  older  or  more 
manly  than  at  the  immature  period  of  which  he  spoke  so 
disparagingly.  Betty  repressed  a  smile.  Intuitively  she 
felt  that  she  had  changed  more  than  he.  She  believed 
herself  to  be  more  mature  in  her  outlook  upon  life  and 
more  competent  to  deal  with  its  problems.  And  the  old 
doubt  of  years  ago,  the  doubt  of  which  she  had  spoken 
to  him,  the  doubt  which  had  harassed  her  so  cruelly  all 
these  years,  the  doubt  that  he  would  not  make  nearly  as 
great  a  sacrifice  for  her  as  she  had  made  for  him  sud- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         451 

denly  sprang-  luminously  to  the  front,  confronting  her 
with  glaring  insolence,  like  an  impudent,  staring  electric 
sign.  She  repressed  her  agitation;  she  told  herself  that 
such  was  the  law  the  world  over — the  woman's  will- 
ingness to  bear  and  suffer  so  much  more  for  the  man  she 
loves  than  the  man  would  be  willing  to  endure  and  suffer 
for  her.  Then  she  reproached  herself  for  these  thoughts, 
accused  herself  of  being  morbid  because  she  dwelt  so 
much  on  woman's  superior  moral  caliber;  probably  her 
own  sex  took  a  sort  of  unhealthy  pleasure  in  suffering 
of  this  altruistic  sort. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Dick  continued,  emphatically,  without  inter- 
rupting his  walk  through  the  small  room,  "yes,  sir,  I  am 
going  to  deal  with  that  husband  of  yours." 

"How?"    Betty  took  no  pains  to  hide  her  amusement. 

"How?"  Dick  echoed.  "I  don't  know,  but  never  you 
fear,  I  shall  deal  with  him,  deal  with  him  summarily, 
that's  all." 

"Listen  to  me,  Dicky  boy.  You  have  no  weapon  at 
your  command  to  fight  Earlcote.  I  have.  And  I  am 
going  to  use  it." 

"It's  not  to  be  thought  of,  Betty.  I  have  got  to  see 
him." 

"What  a  firecracker  it  is — just  like  you  always  were. 
Come  and  sit  down  beside  me,  like  a  good  little  boy, 
and  listen  to  the  plan  I  have  incubated." 

Obediently  he  came  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She 
resumed : 

"When  Earlcote  forced  his  cruel  bargain  upon  me,  I 
believed  that  he  had  played  fair;  that  is,  I  believed  that 
he  was  merely  taking  advantage  of  circumstances  which 
chance  had  thrown  in  his  way.  In  consequence  I  dealt 
fairly  with  him.  Now,  however,  since  I  know  that  he 
was  instrumental  in  shaping  the  circumstances  which 
made  me  his  prey,  I  consider  myself  free  of  the  agree- 


452         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ment,  and  to-night  I  shall  tell  him  so.  Remember, 
Dicky  boy,  it  is  the  singer,  not  the  woman  he  cares  for — 
so  he  has  always  declared,  and  because  of  this  peculiar 
condition  I  will  be  able  to  apply  the  thumb-screws  to 
him.  Unless  he  agrees  to  a  divorce,  I  am  going  to  refuse 
to  sing.  I  will  break  my  contract  with  the  opera — you 
know  what  that  means?  In  addition  to  heavy  loss  of 
money,  in  the  way  of  indemnity,  for  which  Earlcote 
will  not  care,  there  will  be  a  terrific  scandal;  wild,  fan- 
tastic rumors  concerning  my  voice  will  be  spread,  which, 
in  turn,  will  reflect  upon  my  teacher  himself.  He  is 
almost  as  proud  of  my  voice — which  his  monumental 
egotism  makes  him  describe  as  an  instrument  upon  which 
his  musicianship  enables  him  to  play — as  he  used  to  be 
of  his  piano  playing.  That  is  my  bludgeon,  and  I  am 
going  to  use  it.  I  do  not,  as  a  rule,  approve  of  divorces, 
but  I  feel  that  the  entire  history  of  my  marriage  is  such 
a  monstrous  outrage  that  I  am  justified  in  securing  a 
divorce  and  in  remarrying." 

"But  if  you  fail,  Betty?" 

"I  won't  fail,"  she  said,  doggedly. 

"But  if  you  do,  Betty,  will  you  come  away  with  me  ?" 

"It  is  unthinkable  that  I  should  fail." 

"You  are  very  sure !" 

"I  know  Earlcote  only  too  well.  There  will  be  a  ter- 
rific scene,  and  then  I  will  carry  the  day." 

"I  do  not  believe  he  will  consent  to  give  you  your 
freedom,"  said  Dick.  "I  do  not  see,  Betty,  how  a  man 
who  is  your  husband,  whose  wife  you  have  been  and  are, 
can  be  willing  to  give  you  up.  Betty,  Betty,  you  are  a 
superbly  beautiful  woman  and,  oh,  God!  The  thought 
that  you  have  been  that  man's  wife  drives  me  mad ! 
And,  more  cruel  still  and  more  harassing  is  the  thought 
that  there  must  have  been  times  when  you  did  not  hate 
him." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         453 

"Dick,"  Betty  said  very  quietly,  "it  will  calm  you  to 
know  that  for  over  a  year  and  a  half  we  have  not  lived 
as  man  and  wife." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  looked  at  her  with  unbelieving 
eyes. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  gently,  "why  do  you  torture  yourself 
with  thoughts  like  these  in  your  mind  at  present?  It  is 
unworthy  of  you.  You  cast  a  terrible  slur  on  me  a  mo- 
ment ago.  If,  loving  you,  I  had  ever  thought  with  love 
of  another  man,  though  that  man  was  my  husband,  would 
I  be  myself?" 

"But,  Betty,  I  do  not  understand — you  are  such  a 
womanly  woman  now — if  Earlcote  did  not  work  the 
change  in  you,  who  did  ?" 

"I  cannot  answer  that  question  at  the  present  moment. 
It  involves  too  many  things  touching  yourself,  too  many 
things,  dear,  that  I  cannot  say  to  you  while  I  bear  an- 
other man's  name." 

"Betty!" 

"Yes,  Dicky  boy.  As  soon  as  I  have  Earlcote's  consent 
to  a  divorce  you  shall  know  all  and  everything,  and  he 
will  set  me  free.  He  will  have  to.  The  glory  of  having 
cultivated  my  voice  will  outweigh  the  pleasure  of  label- 
ling me  as  his  possession,  particularly  as  I  am  willing  to 
agree  to  retain  his  name  on  the  operatic  stage  and  to 
continue  my  career.  Ah,  Dicky,  Dicky,  if  I  had  my  way, 
I  would  never  sing  in  public — the  greatest  happiness  in 
the  world  would  come  to  me  as  your  wife,  your  wife, 
Dick,  in  every  sense  of  the  word  your  wife — your  wife, 
do  you  understand?" 

"Betty !"  He  was  intensely  touched.  "If  you  feel  that 
way,  sweetheart,  why,  instead  of  making  a  new  bargain 
with  that  arch-fiend — why,  I  say,  not  come  away  with 
me  ?  Think  of  George  Eliot  and  Lewes !  Did  any  one 
blame  them  ?  A  few  Pharisees,  perhaps.  You  would  be 


454         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

my  wife  and  I  your  husband  as  surely  as  if  we  were 
thrice  married." 

"No,  dear.  Much  as  I  dislike  the  limelight,  and  I 
dislike  it  exceedingly,  much  more  than  you,  who  love  it, 
can  guess — I  feel  that  I  must  choose  what  I  consider  the 
only  honorable  way — the  only  way,  I  mean,  that  would 
not  bring  dishonor  to  you  and  me." 

"Your  dislike  of  the  stage  seems  very  odd  to  me," 
Dick  said.  "I  love  it,  Betty,  I  love  it  dearly.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  I  was  sufficiently  grateful  to 
you  for  saving  my  life,  by  sacrificing  yourself.  Oh, 
Betty,  the  glorious,  divine  feeling  of  knowing,  at  a 
recital,  that  you  sway  thousands  of  human  souls,  that 
thousands  of  human  hearts  beat  in  unison  with  yours. 
In  spite  of  my  continual  heart-hunger  for  you,  dearest, 
this  last  year  has  been  a  year  of  superlative  satisfaction." 

"I  am  happy  to  know  you  are  happy,  Dicky." 

"I  did  not  speak  of  happiness,  dearest.  I  spoke  of 
satisfaction." 

"Are  happiness  and  satisfaction  not  the  same?" 

"No,  satisfaction  is  joy  in  doing,  happiness  is  joy  in 
living,  and  wonderful  as  is  the  emotion  of  feeling  that 
you  impose  your  mood — be  it  merry,  or  sad,  or  contem- 
plative— upon  myriads  of  human  beings,  the  joy,  dear, 
of  having  the  right  to  hold  you  in  my  arms  as  my  wife 
would  far  transcend  the  other  joy." 

"I  am  afraid,  Dicky  boy,  that  you  hitched  on  the  last 
phrase  only  out  of  gallantry." 

"Betty !  I  have  often  wondered  whether  I  would  have 
been  grateful  to  you  at  all  for  saving  my  life  if  I  had 
not  received  the  scholarship  which  made  possible  my 
artistic  career.  You  see,  I  am  telling  you  this  because 
I  do  not  want  you  to  think  me  better  than  I  am.  But 
circumstances  played  into  your  hands.  And  I  am  grate- 
ful, extremely  grateful,  to  you." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         455 

For  one  moment  she  was  sorely  tempted  to  tell  him  the 
truth  concerning  the  scholarship.  She  hated  to  have  a 
lie,  even  so  virtuous  and  kindly  a  one,  between  herself, 
and  him.  Then  her  delicacy  prevailed,  and  she  remained 
silent.  Womanly  fineness  of  feeling  told  her  that  while 
he,  the  man,  could  gratefully  accept  his  life  at  her  hands, 
and  acknowledge  that  indebtedness,  it  would  be  humiliat- 
ing for  him  to  be  told  after  all  these  years  that  he  owed 
her  his  career  as  well. 

"Do  not  use  the  word  'grateful,'  Dicky — it  is  such  a 
horrid,  horrid  word.  I  want  only  your  love,  dearest. 
Oh,  surely,  there  is  no  sin  in  calling  you  that  now.  Dear- 
est, dearest  .  .  ."  She  extended  her  hands  to  him,  and 
reverently  he  lifted  them  to  his  lips.  The  light  that 
shone  from  her  face  was  undimmed  by  any  mundane 
emotion.  Richard  felt  the  sanctity  of  the  moment,  and 
his  passion  sank  back  into  smouldering  embers  before 
the  overwhelming  force  of  this  woman's  beauty  of  soul. 
"Dearest,  dearest,"  she  repeated,  "I  have  earned  you,  I 
am  going  to  have  you,  and  you  must  never  speak  of 
gratitude  again.  To  do  so  is  to  load  our  love  down  in 
chains." 

"But,  Betty,  what  if  he  refuses  a  divorce?" 

"How  you  hark  back  to  that,  Dick!  I  tell  you  it  is 
unthinkable.  He  will  not  refuse." 

"Then,  if  you  are  so  certain,  you  ought  not  to  be 
afraid  to  promise  me  what  I  ask  of  you  in  case  of 
failure." 

Betty's  face  became  very  grave.    He  continued : 

"You  hesitate — that  means  that  you  are  not  as  cer- 
tain, as  you  are  trying  to  make  yourself  believe,  of  the 
outcome  of  your  ultimatum." 

"From  your  viewpoint,  Dicky,  I  can  see  the  justice 
of  what  you  say." 

"Dearest,  I  shall  go  mad  unless  you  give  me  some 


456         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

assurance.  Promise,  in  case  Earlcote  refuses,  that  you 
will  come  away  with  me  and  openly  proclaim  that  you 
consider  yourself  my  wife.  Surely,  you  must  realize 
that  you  are  justified  in  doing  this — that  in  taking  this 
step,  your  conduct  is  sincere,  courageous,  noble  and  in 
no  way  base  or  low." 

Arms  crossed  over  her  bosom,  Betty  sat  in  silence  for 
a  moment.  Then  she  answered  him: 

"You  are  right.  I  am  justified  in  taking  such  a  step. 
My  marriage  to  Earlcote,  while  he  insisted  upon  its 
being  a  marriage,  was  a  ghastly  mockery,  an  infernal 
farce.  Cruel?  I  have  promised  to  tell  you  all  some 
day." 

"Then  you  promise?" 

"What  was  I  to  promise  you?"  she  asked,  her  eyes 
fixed  blindly  upon  a  distant  point,  reminiscently  seeing 
past  horrors. 

"Betty!"  he  cried  in  anguish.  What  must  she  have 
suffered  for  his  sake  to  ask  so  wandering  a  question. 
"Betty,  you  were  to  promise  me  that  if  Earlcote  will  not 
consent  to  a  divorce  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  Very  well,  Dicky,  I  promise. 
You  are  right.  If  we  are  forced  to  take  this  step  we  are 
not  doing  an  immoral  thing.  We  are  strictly  within 
our  right." 

"Betty,"  his  arm  crept  about  her,  "Betty,  sweetheart, 
may  I  kiss  you  now  ?" 

"No,  Dicky.  Would  clandestine  kisses  not  make  us 
lose  our  self-respect,  our  respect  for  each  other?  Very 
soon  I  will  be  yours,  yours  to  hold,  to  kiss,  to  enfold — 
yours,  entirely  yours.  But  married  or  unmarried,  there 
must  be  nothing  surreptitious  in  our  love,  nothing  to 
vulgarize  it,  to  debase  it  from  a  noble  passion  into  a  low 
intrigue." 

"Betty,   Betty,   you   are   splitting   hairs."     He   could 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         457 

scarcely  contain  himself.  "Be  merciful,  darling;  be 
merciful,  sweetheart,  and  let  me  kiss  you." 

His  lips  became  audacious.  Gently  placing  her  fingers 
upon  his  lips,  she  pushed  him  away. 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  tenderly,  "I  have  borne  and  endured 
many  things  for  you.  When  I  tell  you  what  I  have 
promised  to  tell  you,  tell  you  all  that  language  can  in 
decency  convey,  after  I  have  stripped  my  heart  naked 
for  you  to  see,  and  if  I  had  the  power  to  use  lurid  and 
inflammatory  diction  in  painting  the  misery  I  endured 
for  years,  then  ultimately  you  might  have  a  dim  notion, 
a  vague  idea  of  the  purgatory  I  lived  through.  All  that 
I  endured  for  you,  but  there  is  one  thing  I  could  not 
endure — to  be  disappointed  in  you.  I  could  not  bear, 
Dicky,  to  think  that  you  would  be  willing  to  do  a  dis- 
honorable thing." 

He  drew  back  as  if  stung  by  a  whip. 

"Dishonorable?"  he  asked.  "That's  a  strong  word  to 
use,  isn't  it,  for  my  desire  for  a  kiss?" 

She  did  not  reply,  she  merely  looked  at  him,  and 
looking  into  her  clear,  clean  eyes,  the  full  import  of  her 
words  and  the  justice  of  them  dawned  slowly  upon  him. 
But  while  he  looked,  the  old  persistent  doubt  began  to 
harass  and  torment  her  again.  Would  he  have  done  as 
much  for  her  as  she  for  him? 

She  shook  off  the  harrowing  suspicion.  She  loved 
him,  and  there  is  unwisdom  in  doubting  where  we  love. 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  "to-morrow  evening  I  sing  in  "La 
Tosca."  After  the  performance  I  will  see  Earlcote.  He 
conies  in  from  Earlcote  Manor  whenever  I  sing,  and 
after  the  performance  he  dines  or  sups  with  me  and 
criticizes  my  interpretation." 

Richard  snorted  out  the  one  word,  "Presumption." 

"Not  at  all,  Dicky.  His  criticisms  are  always  profit- 
able. At  any  rate,  after  supper,  I  will  broach  the  sub- 


458         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ject.  We  will  have  a  lively  night.  I  will  send  you  a  note 
the  next  morning  as  to  the  immediate  outcome.  Of  the 
ultimate  outcome  I  have  no  doubt." 

"Why  not  write  me  as  soon  as  you  know  ?  A  night  of 
suspense  will  be  unendurable." 

"If  there  is  time,  I  will.  But  I  fancy  we  will  continue 
our  session  until  the  small  hours  of  the  morning." 

She  rose  and  began  pacing  the  floor.  Finally,  in  a 
low,  vibrant  voice,  she  commanded: 

"You  had  better  go  now,  Dicky." 

"Let  me  stay  a  little  longer,"  he  begged.  "Oh,  Betty, 
Betty,  the  inconceivable  bliss  of  being  with  you  like  this 
with  the  sweet  familiar  intimacy  of  bygone  days." 

"Please  go." 

"Why?" 

She  did  not  reply,  merely  looked  at  him,  and  he  com- 
prehended that  her  insistence  arose  from  her  fear  that 
her  self-control  was  going.  It  was  a  new  aspect  of  her. 
The  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  her  sweet  lips  were 
tremulous,  her  eyes  glowed  with  passion.  Her  entire  per- 
son breathed  of  love  and  ardor  and  longing  for  him. 

"Dick,"  she  murmured,  "go,  dear,  please  go.  I  do  not 
want  to  throw  myself  in  your  arms,  and  I  am  longing 
to  do  just  that.  I  am  longing,  dearest,  to  lie  against 
your  heart,  to  feel  your  arms  about  me,  to  feel  your  lips 
against  my  cheek  and  upon  my  mouth.  Go,  dearest — 

go." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  He  stood  ir- 
resolute, filled  with  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  strain 
her  to  his  breast,  to  kiss  the  nape  of  her  neck,  yet  want- 
ing to  do  as  she  asked.  A  man  less  delicate-minded  than 
Richard  would  have  made  the  mistake  of  construing  her 
words  as  an  invitation  to  take  the  initiative,  and  for 
fear  of  offending  her  modesty,  would  have  kissed  her 
with  an  exaggerated  ardor.  But  what  she  had  said  to 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         459 

him  about  maintaining  their  self-respect  and  their  respect 
for  each  other  was  luminously  impressed  upon  his  mem- 
ory. Because  her  viewpoint  seemed  so  unusual,  he  paid 
her  the  tribute  of  recognizing  her  utter  sincerity  in  speak- 
ing as  she  had  done.  It  seemed  to  him  that  to  kiss  her 
or  to  take  her  into  his  arms  in  this  moment  of  her  weak- 
ness, or  even  to  touch  her  hand  caressingly,  would  be  to 
take  an  unfair  advantage  of  her. 

He  loved  her  holily  as  well  as  passionately,  and  he  was 
incapable  of  doing  anything  that  would  lower  her  in  her 
own  estimation.  He  must,  if  necessary,  as  in  this  in- 
stance, protect  her  against  herself. 

Quietly  he  walked  to  the  door.  Standing  there,  he 
said: 

"I  am  going,  Betty,  as  you  wish." 

Her  hands  fell  away  from  her  face.  He  saw  that  she 
had  regained  her  self-control  completely,  but  her  lips 
moved  as  if  in  silent  prayer.  Suddenly  she  stretched  out 
her  hands  and  came  toward  him.  She  spoke  rapidly. 

"Dick,  it  was  sweet  of  you  to  be  strong  while  my  weak- 
ness lasted."  She  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "I 
knew  I  was  not  mistaken  in  you,"  she  said.  "I  knew 
you  were  just  that  sort  of  a  man.  God  bless  you  and 
keep  you." 


CHAPTER  II 

Dick  spent  the  following  day  in  wandering  about  his 
former  haunts.  He  did  not  share  Betty's  sanguineness, 
and  he  had  an  abiding  sense  of  impending  disaster.  He 
waited  in  the  lobby  of  his  hotel  until  long  after  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  nursing  the  hope  that  he  would 
receive  a  message  of  some  sort  from  Betty.  Then,  his 
nervous  force  at  low  ebb  from  the  terrific  nervous  strain 
he  had  been  under,  he  went  to  his  rooms. 

By  half -past  five  he  was  awake,  and  by  six  he  was 
entirely  dressed.  An  intolerable  nervousness  possessed 
him.  He  decided  that,  unless  he  heard  from  her  by  ten 
o'clock,  he  would  go  to  her  apartment  and  ask  to  see  her, 
her  wishes  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

He  had  just  seated  himself  in  the  restaurant,  with  the 
intention  of  drinking  a  cup  of  black  coffee  when  a  mes- 
senger boy  came  running  into  the  dining-room,  shouting 
his  name.  Richard  claimed  the  letter  the  boy  carried. 
It  was  from  Betty. 

"DEAREST  : 

"Earlcote  refuses.  Await  me.  Will  be  with  you  al- 
most immediately  after  letter  reaches  you. 

"BETTY." 

Richard  swallowed  the  cup  of  coffee  hastily,  and  push- 
ing aside  the  rolls  which  the  waiter  had  brought  him, 
went  to  the  lobby.  He  consulted  his  watch.  It  was  pre- 
cisely half-past  seven.  Eons  afterwards,  it  seemed  to 
him,  when  he  had  looked  at  it  again  the  hand  had  moved 
,one  minute. 

460 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         461 

Viciously  he  thrust  the  watch  into  his  pocket  and 
began  walking  up  and  down  the  long  hall.  Time  crawled 
by  and  finally,  at  eight  o'clock,  Betty  walked  into  the 
lobby.  She  had  come  afoot,  and  though  there  were  deep! 
circles  under  her  eyes,  the  raw  November  morning  had 
painted  her  cheeks  a  healthy  red. 

She  greeted  Richard  with  a  very  grave  face. 

"Where  can  we  speak  uninterruptedly?"  she  asked. 
Without  replying,  he  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  small 
rooms  opening  out  from  the  lobby.  At  this  hour  of  the 
morning  it  was  entirely  deserted. 

"Well,  Richard,  Earlcote  not  only  refused  to  divorce 
me — he  threatened  to  have  me  incarcerated  as  insane  if 
I  insisted  on  breaking  my  contract  with  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  by  refusing  to  sing.  He  agreed  to  let  me  have 
twenty- four  hours  to  think  matters  over.  That  was  at 
three  o'clock  this  morning,  after  a  four  hours'  session. 
The  game's  up,  Dick.  I  am  glad  now,  dearest,  that  you 
foresaw  this  possibility,  and  exacted  the  promise  you  did. 
Earlcote  tells  me  he  will  have  no  difficulty  in  getting 
alienists  to  pronounce  me  insane  if  I  persist  in  refusing 
to  sing.  That  may  be  so,  if  I  remain  with  him.  But  if 
you  and  I  openly  declare  our  intentions,  I  do  not  believe 
any  alienist  of  character  would  dare  risk  his  reputation 
by  alleging  that  I  am  out  of  my  mind.  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Dick,  and  suddenly,  in  a  rush  of  joy, 
he  realized  the  import  of  her  words.  She  had  come  to 
him  to  give  herself  to  him  as  if  she  were  indeed  his  wife. 
And  the  happiness  which  he  felt  made  great  waves  of 
dizziness  vibrate  through  his  head. 

"Dick,"  said  Betty,  speaking  quickly  and  with  sub- 
dued passion,  "Dick,  you  will  never  make  me  regret, 
will  you,  what  I  am  about  to  do?  My  reason  and  my 
heart  tell  me  that  I  am  justified  in  coming  to  you  like 
this,  but  deep  down,  Dicky,  my  girlhood  training,  in- 


462         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

stinct,  breeding,  love  of  convention,  assert  themselves  and 
I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  do  a  very  terrible  thing  in  leav- 
ing the  man  I  am  married  to — no  matter  how  bitterly 
and  with  what  cause  I  hate  him — for  another  man.  Dick, 
promise  me  that  you  will  never  give  me  cause  to  regret 
the  step  I  am  taking ;  that,  in  no  way,  I  will  sink  in  your 
estimation  for  taking  it." 

"Betty,"  he  showered  burning  kisses  upon  her  gloved 
hand.  Then,  deftly  unclasping  the  glove,  he  pulled  it 
down  until  it  adhered  only  to  her  finger  tips,  and  now 
he  kissed  the  back  of  her  hand  and  then,  turning  it  about, 
he  kissed  the  dainty  palm,  and  suddenly  he  pulled  off  her 
glove  and  was  kissing  her  finger  tips,  crushing  them 
passionately  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

"Betty,  Betty,  how  can  I  prove  to  you  that  I  would 
not  have  suggested  this  thing  to  you  if  I  did  not  believe 
it  right  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  deal  in  platitudes.  But  surely 
your  own  reason  must  tell  you,  Betty,  that  to  a  case  as 
isolated  and  unique  as  ours  the  ordinary  criterion  of 
conduct  cannot  be  applied  with  justice." 

"Do  not  all  lovers  think  their  case  unique?"  Betty 
interpolated. 

"Ours  is  unique,"  he  repeated,  dogmatically.  "And 
your  sensibility  must  tell  you  how  grotesque  and  hideous 
was  the  sin  Earlcote  forced  upon  you — you,  all  purity 
and  chastity  and  innocence — when  he  made  you  his 
wife." 

"It  is  curious,  Dick,"  replied  Betty,  "on  the  day  I  went 
to  Earlcote  Manor,  after  you  had  regained  your  health — 
the  day  that  shut  me  off  from  you  for  five  long  years, 
Earlcote  said  precisely  the  same  thing  to  me — that  it  was 
a  sin  for  a  woman  to  marry  a  man  she  does  not  love. 
And  I  was  soon  to  know  that  he  was  right — that  such  a 
union  is  not  merely  a  flagrant  outrage  to  every  instinct 
of  decency,  but  that  it  is  sin,  blood-red,  deep-dyed  sin, 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         463 

a  sin  not  merely  against  a  woman's  own  self,  but  against 
nature  at  large.  And,  Dick,  he  prophesied  that  compre- 
hension and  sympathy  would  come  through  sin,  and  he 
was  right.  Even  sin  has  its  uses.  That  seems  a  curious 
thing  to  say.  But  all  that  has  happened  seems  so 
strangely  interbound.  I  realize  now  that  if  I  had  been 
just  a  little  different  as  a  girl,  a  little  less  cold,  a  little 
less  'pure/  as  I  then  termed  it,  you,  my  Dicky  boy, 
would  never  have  thought  that  I  would  be  happier  as  a 
singer  than  as  your  wife  and  you  would  not  have  entered 
my  name  at  the  contest;  Earlcote  would  never  have 
heard  me  sing,  and,  in  consequence,  would  not  have 
resorted  to  foul  means  to  bring  about  a  rupture  between 
us.  Or,  if  he  had  resorted  to  foul  play,  in  order  to  side- 
track you — you,  Richard,  would  not  have  gone  wrong. 
I  failed  you — you  wished  to  spare  me,  to  be  sweet  and 
tender  and  reverent  with  me — and  you  paid  dearly  for 
your  attitude.  And  I  paid,  too,  we  both  know  how 
terribly.  But  in  paying,  I  was  broadened.  I  am  a  better 
and  stronger  and  broader  woman  because  of  the  ordeal 
I  have  been  through,  and  I  feel  that  my  love  for  you  has 
an  element  which  it  would  have  lacked  if  I  had  been 
spared  the  suffering  I  went  through.  My  love  for  you 
is  deep  and  strong  and  sweet;  it  is  both  pure  and  pas- 
sionate, and  my  marriage  to  Earlcote  has  made  it  plain 
to  me,  so  palpably  plain  that  you  were  right  when  you 
said  to  me  years  ago  that  in  marriage  there  is  purity  only 
in  passion.  It  cannot  be  otherwise  .  .  ." 

She  remained  silent  for  a  while,  then  continued : 
"Because  I  am  a  thoroughly  normal  woman  now, 
Dicky  boy,  I  long  to  be  your  wife.  I  long  for  your  con- 
stant companionship — to  live  with  and  for  you,  to  serve 
you.  Ah,  Dick,  Dick,  you  may  marvel  at  the  change  that 
has  taken  place  in  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  came 
about.  It  came  slowly,  almost  unnoticably,  through  the 


464.         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

slow,  creeping  hours  of  a  year.  And  one  summer's 
day,  Dick,  when  Earlcote  and  I  were  in  our  home  in  the 
Pocono  Mountains,  in  walking  through  the  grounds  of  a 
neighboring  hotel  I  saw  a  curious  thing.  Near  a  small, 
daintily  built  summer-house  in  which  we  were  resting, 
was  a  mound  of  decaying  matter,  and  from  this  grew 
the  three  most  perfect  and  beautiful  ears  of  wheat  that 
I  have  ever  seen.  They  were  perfect  things  of  their 
kind,  large,  exquisitely  formed,  as  high  as  a  man  almost, 
and  without  blemish  or  flaw.  As  I  looked  at  their  golden 
heads,  swaying  gracefully  to  and  fro  on  the  strong,  tall 
stalks,  they  seemed  to  me  to  typify  Hope,  Faith  and 
Charity,  the  three  most  sacred  and  tender  and  pure 
emotions  of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  just  as  those  three  perfect  ears  of 
wheat  had  grown  out  of  the  waste  matter,  so  did  the 
finest  and  purest  and  most  spiritual  emotions  grow  out 
of  what  seems  to  us  the  lower  human  nature,  and  to  be 
as  closely  dependent  upon  that  for  sustenance  as  the 
three  ears  of  wheat  were  dependent  upon  the  soil  from 
which  they  grew.  Then,  in  a  flash,  I  realized  how  foolish 
I  had  been,  how  stupidly  arrogant  had  been  the  pride 
in  my  belief  that  I,  alone  among  men  and  women,  was 
free  from  what  it  had  pleased  me  to  call  'the  trammels 
of  the  flesh.'  I  understood,  dearest,  that  there  are  depths 
and  heights  in  human  nature  which  words  cannot  fathom 
or  explain,  depths  and  heights  above  and  below  reason, 
and  that  it  rests  with  the  individual  whether  the  dross 
of  love  be  used  as  a  soil  for  what  is  highest  and  best  in 
us,  or  whether,  remaining  untilled,  the  weeds  in  it  run 
to  seed  and  choke  up  the  spirit.  Oh,  Dicky,  Dicky,  I  had 
suffered  before — but  what  I  suffered  after  that  realiza- 
tion came  to  me,  you  will  never  be  able  to  comprehend. 
Then,  finally  a  new  optimism  was  in  me.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  in  sacrificing  myself  so  that  you  might  live,  I 


« "REASON  AND  THE  VOICE  OP  THE  HEART  APPROVE  OF  THE  STEP."       p.  465 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         465 

had  not  been  wholly  unselfish.  Deep  down  in  my  heart, 
sub-consciously,  unrecognized  by  myself,  hope  and  faith 
had  been  imbedded  right  along  that  you  and  I  would 
some  day  be  truly  united. 

"But  now,  Dick,  for  a  little  while,  I  could  almost  wish 
back  the  old  days  of  spiritual  pride  and  contempt  for 
the  flesh,  because  I  would  then  feel  myself  so  much  more 
justified  in  doing  what  I  am  doing.  Ah,  Dicky,  if 
mothers  would  only  be  frank  with  their  daughters,  teach 
them  to  look  at  marriage  and  love  in  the  right  way,  in- 
stead of  treating  the  closest  tie  in  nature  as  something 
to  be  absolutely  avoided  and  shunned  in  all  conversation. 

"And,  Dicky,  in  spite  of  all  I  have  endured,  I  am 
almost  thankful  for  my  bitter  experience.  My  views 
were  garbled  at  the  outset.  My  mother — I  do  not  wish 
to  blame  her — gave  me  a  distorted  view  of  marriage  and 
love.  Even  you,  dear,  were  so  mortally  afraid  of  wound- 
ing me,  or  offending  my  purity  that  I  think  you  would 
have  allowed  me  to  pass  through  life  without  awakening 
me.  Earlcote  did  not  hesitate  to  awaken  me.  He  forced 
me  to  speak  and  think  about  those  matters  which  I  hated 
most  to  think  and  speak  about.  He  was  merciless  and 
remorseless — but  you,  dearest,  you  and  myself,  will  profit 
by  the  pains  which  he  took  for  the  sake  of  my  voice. 

"I  know  I  am  right  in  doing  as  I  am  doing,  reason 
and  the  voice  of  the  heart  approve  of  the  step.  But  deep 
down  in  my  soul,  Dick,  there  is  a  sediment  of  shame,  and 
that  feeling  of  shame  I  cannot  wholly  combat." 

Dicky  sat  very  still  for  a  few  minutes,  her  hands  be- 
tween his.  Then  he  said,  softly: 

"Dearest,  I  love  you  too  well,  too  sacredly,  to  allow 
the  slightest  alloy  of  untruth  to  tincture  what  I  say  to 
you.  The  feeling  of  shame  you  speak  of  arises  from 
the  fact  that  in  taking  this  step  we  are  committing  not 
a  breach  against  morality  in  the  abstract,  but  an  offense 


466         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

against  organized  society.  Society,  to  protect  itself 
against  irregular  unions  and  children  born  outside  of 
wedlock,  must  taboo  the  participants  in  an  irregular 
love  affair.  Society  cannot  allow  the  individual  to  be 
judge  of  the  merits  of  his  or  her  own  case,  and  the  only 
reason  society  does  not  deal  as  summarily  with  such 
offenders  as  with  thieves  and  burglars,  by  placing  them 
under  lock  and  key,  is  the  circumstance,  that  if  all  irregu- 
larities of  conduct  were  made  public  and  punished,  the 
gigantic  task  of  jailing  the  offenders  and  of  providing 
sustenance  and  clothes  for  them  during  the  term  of  their 
imprisonment,  as  well  as  of  carrying  on  the  business  of 
the  world  in  the  interim,  would  devolve  upon  about  one- 
half  of  society,  I  imagine,  for  the  other  half  would  be 
in  jail. 

"Betty,  darling,  society  has  progressed.  Our  case  is 
unique.  Society  will  be  lenient  in  dealing  with  us.  All 
the  world  loves  a  lover,  you  know,  and  the  sacrifice 
you  have  made  for  me  will  go  far  towards  smoothing 
our  way. 

"However,  dearest,  if  you  cannot  suppress  the  feeling 
of  shame  of  which  you  speak,  if  you  feel  that  that  emo- 
tion of  shame  is  bound  to  persist — then,  sweetheart,  you 
must  not  remain  here  with  me.  Then,  at  least  for  the 
present,  return  to  your  own  home,  and  reconsider  and 
weigh  the  consequences  of  coming  to  me." 

He  had  relinquished  her  hand,  and  sat  moodily  staring 
at  the  carpet,  running  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
through  his  hair. 

Doubt  came  to  her.  Was  he  trying  to  extricate  him- 
self from  a  position  which,  he  knew,  would  be  distaste- 
ful to  himself  now  that  he  came  to  examine  it  closely? 
Was  this  the  true  reason  of  the  protective  attitude  he 
was  assuming?  She  hated  herself  for  doubting  him,  but 
the  feeling  of  insecurity  persisted,  and  the  older  doubt. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART        467 

the  doubt  that  had  harassed  her  for  over  five  years, 
gathered  about  the  new  doubt  and  made  it  grow  in 
stature  as  a  rolling  snowball  thrives  and  fattens. 

She  sat  in  mute  misery.  She  was  crushed  by  the 
sense  of  impotence  which  comes  to  every  one  at  some 
time  or  other  upon  realizing  the  utter  hopelessness  of 
trying  to  penetrate  the  innermost  thoughts  of  another. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  his  manner  and  his  words 
gave  her  the  most  trustworthy  proof  of  his  single- 
mindedness  that  she  could  have  asked. 

"Betty,"  he  cried,  "how  can  I  give  you  up  now?  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  losing  you,  after  the  hope  not 
merely  of  knowing  you  my  wife  in  all  but  name,  but  of 
having  you  as  my  constant,  inseparable  companion.  I 
love  you,  Betty,  I  love  you  deeply,  but  just  because  I 
love  you  I  feel  in  honor  bound  to  protect  you  against 
yourself,  against  your  generosity  to  me.  I  must  not  take 
advantage  of  your  generosity  or  of  your  weakness,  or 
of  both  conjoined.  Therefore — go  back  and  reconsider, 
but,  oh,  Betty!"  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  fren- 
ziedly,  again  and  again,  "if  you  intend  taking  my  advice, 
then  go  soon,  and  go  quickly,  otherwise  my  sweetheart, 
I  will  lose  control  of  myself.  After  all  I  am  only  human, 
Betty.  I  am  a  man,  and  you  are  the  woman  whom  I  love 
and  idolize.  And,  oh,  how  I  want  you — want  you  as 
wife  and  companion  for  ever  and  ever." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  large  arm-chair  and  pressed 
the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  over  his  eyes.  With  the 
left  hand  he  gripped  the  arm  of  the  chair  with  such 
intensity  that  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  of  his 
suffering. 

Betty  crossed  to  him  and  sat  down  upon  the  vacant 
chair-arm.  Leaning  over,  she  gently  tried  to  pull  away 
the  hand  held  before  his  eyes. 

"Dicky,"  she  said,  "Dicky,  I  shall  never  leave  you  now. 


468         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Listen  to  me,  dearest.  A  moment  ago  I  thought  that  you 
were  afraid  on  your  own  account  to  take  this  step.  I 
thought  you  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  affair  as  gracefully 
as  you  could." 

"Betty !"  His  hand  came  away  from  his  eyes  and  he 
regarded  her  indignantly. 

"Yes,  Dicky."  She  stooped  and  kissed  first  one  eye, 
and  then  the  other.  "It  was  horrid  of  me,  I  admit.  You 
see,  dear,  I  am  not  quite  perfect,  as  you  love  to  think 
I  am.  And  now  that  I  know  that  you  really  want  me,  I 
am  not  going  to  reconsider.  You  have  got  to  protect  me 
now,  dearest,  not  against  myself  or  yourself,  but  against 
Earlcote.  I  am  afraid  of  him,  Dick.  I  would  not  go 
back  to  him  after  the  scene  of  last  night  for  worlds. 
After  all  I  said  to  him  yesterday — it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  go  back.  As  I  told  you,  Dick,  we  have  not 
been  man  and  wife  for  over  a  year,  but  Earlcote  is  cruel 
— you  can  hardly  understand  how  terribly  cruel  he  can 
be;  and  I  am  not  a  woman  who  can  live  in  a  state  of 
perpetual  warfare,  nor  could  I  submit  myself  to  him 
after  seeing  you  again,  Dicky,  after  speaking  to  you  as 
I  have  spoken,  and  after  kissing  you." 

Abruptly  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms  and  offered 
him  her  lips. 

"Kiss  me,  Dick,"  she  commanded,  "kiss  me,  dearest, 
kiss  me  as  you  used  to  in  the  dear  sweet  days  of  the 
past." 

A  few  minutes  later,  her  face  lying  against  his 
shoulder,  she  said : 

"There  are  things,  dearest,  I  could  never  tell  you 
except  like  this,  my  face  hidden  in  your  embrace.  Oh, 
Dick,  the  inferno  I  lived  through!  No,  no,  I  cannot 
tell  you  all — not  even  now — wait !" 

Too  indignant  to  trust  himself  to  speak,  Richard  held 
her  in  his  embrace  without  kissing  her,  petting  and  sooth- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         489 

ing  her  as  she  wept  tempestuously,  by  stroking  her  hair, 
caressing  her  cheek,  whispering  tender,  foolish  words  of 
endearment. 

Finally,  when  she  had  stopped  crying,  he  said, 
determindedly : 

"Betty,  darling,  I  am  going  to  go  and  see  Earlcote." 

"No,  no.    It  would  do  no  good." 

"However,  I  wish  to  see  him.  Some  one  will  have 
to  tell  him  of  our  decision,  and  it  seems  to  me  I  am  the 
one  to  do  it.  To  save  our  dignity,  dear,  we  must  apprize 
him  in  advance  of  what  we  are  going  to  do." 

"I  am  afraid  he  will  kill  you,  or  you  him." 

Dick  laughed. 

"And,  then,  Dicky  boy,  I  am  afraid  to  be  left  alone. 
I  positively  am.  Earlcote  is  not  above  locking  you  up 
in  the  apartment,  and  sending  some  of  his  servants  to 
kidnap  me.  I  am  afraid,  horribly  afraid,  to  be  left 
alone." 

"That  being  so,  I  will  telephone  to  police  headquarters 
for  a  brace  of  able-bodied  detectives." 

And  telephone  he  did.  He  awaited  the  arrival  of  the 
detectives,  and  turned  Betty  over  to  them  for.  safe- 
keeping, to  her  intense  chagrin.  Then  he  went  to  Betty's 
apartments  in  hopes  of  there  learning  Earlcote's  where- 
abouts. 

He  was  told  that  Mr.  Earlcote  had  just  come  in  and 
was  in  the  library,  awaiting  Mrs.  Earlcote's  return. 
Richard  had  himself  announced,  and  a  moment  later 
followed  the  servant  through  the  little  rose-and-gold 
ante-room,  in  which  Betty  had  greeted  him  two  days 
ago,  into  the  library,  a  dainty  apartment  in  white  and 
sea-green. 

Huddled  in  a  large  fur  coat,  a  fur  tippet  about  his 
throat  and  a  fur  cap  upon  his  head,  Earlcote  sat  in  front 
of  the  gas-log  fire.  His  face  was  smaller  and  more  cadav- 


470          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

erous  than  when  Richard  had  last  seen  him,  five  years 
ago,  and  his  complexion,  in  the  pale  light  of  the  cold 
winter  morning,  seemed  green  rather  than  gray. 

"What  gives  me  the  unexpected  pleasure?"  He  mo- 
tioned Richard  to  be  seated,  but  Richard  said,  curtly : 

"Thanks,  I  prefer  standing.  I  will  be  brief.  I  came 
in  regard  to  the  matter  of  which  Mrs.  Earlcote  spoke  to 
you  last  night." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  that?" 

"Everything,  it  seems  to  me.  Mrs.  Earlcote,  I  think, 
was  explicit.  She  told  you  frankly  that,  unless  you  con- 
sent to  divorce,  she  will  abandon  her  stage  career.  I 
do  not  know  whether  she  told  you  that  her  intention  is 
to  live  with  me  as  my  wife." 

"As  your  mistress,  you  mean!  And  you  have  the 
audacity  to  come  here  to  tell  me  that !" 

"Manliness,  not  audacity,  prompted  me  to  come  here. 
Mr.  Earlcote,  your  entire  line  of  conduct  has  been  so 
infamous  that  words  cannot  express  the  indignation  I 
feel.  Nevertheless,  you  are  Betty's  husband,  and,  as 
such,  are  entitled  to  be  apprized  of  our  decision." 

In  a  low,  menacing  voice  Earlcote  replied : 

"Have  a  care.  I  know  my  wife  better  than  you  do. 
She  will  never  fly  in  the  face  of  convention,  not  though 
she  loved  you  a  thousand  times  more  than  she  does,  and 
hated  me  a  thousand  times  worse  than  she  does." 

"I  may  convince  you  that  I  am  right  when  I  tell  you 
that  although  I  entreated  her  to  return  to  her  home  for 
at  least  a  few  more  days  in  order  to  thoroughly  recon- 
sider this  step,  she  refused  to  do  so." 

Earlcote's  breath  came  and  went  like  a  series  of 
hisses.  Richard  continued : 

"Not  only  did  she  refuse  to  return  to  you,  but  she 
implored  me  to  protect  her  against  you,  which  I  did 
effectively  by  surrounding  her  with  a  cordon  of  detec- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         471 

tives,  who,  also,  are  aware  that  I  have  come  to  this 
apartment." 

"That  sounds  almost  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me." 

"If  I  were  afraid  I  would  not  have  come.  But  to  save 
time  and  possible  complications,  I  thought  it  well  to  let 
you  know  that  several  police  officials  know  that  I  entered 
this  house  at  a  certain  hour." 

There  was  a  brief  pause.  Richard,  watching  Earlcote 
narrowly,  thought  he  detected  a  marked  change  in  him. 
Formerly,  in  spite  of  his  poor,  twisted  body,  he  had  given 
the  impression  of  forcefulness.  This  morning,  he  seemed 
broken  and  small;  even  his  malignancy  seemed  less 
appalling  than  formerly. 

"You  did  not  come  here  merely  to  notify  me  that 
Mrs.  Earlcote  intends  breaking  her  marriage  vows?" 

"I  came  for  that  purpose,  yes.  I  came,  also,  because 
I  entertained  a  fugitive  hope  that  you  might  still  recon- 
sider her  proposal,  and  consent  to  a  divorce  in  considera- 
tion of  which  she  would  pledge  herself  to  retain  your 
name  and  to  continue  on  the  stage." 

Richard  paused,  and  as  Earlcote  said  nothing,  Richard 
resumed : 

"Surely,  to  a  man  of  your  temperament,  it  would  be 
intensely  cruel  to  see  the  labor  of  years  go  for  nothing. 
I  fail  to  understand  why  you  hesitate,  since  you  do  not 
love  her." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  Earlcote  broke  in 
angrily.  "As  my  wife,  she  is  my  possession,  and,  as 
long  as  she  is  my  wife,  I  can  hear  her  sing  when  and 
where  I  choose — at  midnight,  if  I  wish,  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  if  I  please.  I  will  not  give  her  up  to 
you."  He  sat  erect  his  grayish-green  face  flushed 
slightly,  some  of  the  old  malignancy  and  egotism  seemed 
to  flash  from  his  eyes.  "I  hate  you,"  he  said,  "I  hate 
you  more  bitterly  than  I  have  ever  hated  any  one,  and 


'473         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  in  possession  of  everything  that 
I  covet  in  vain." 

Richard  looked  at  Earlcote  in  amazement.  It  sug- 
gested itself  to  Richard  that  Earlcote  was  referring  to 
his,  Richard's  career.  He  remembered  Earlcote's  former 
jealousy,  the  story  that  Kitty  had  told  Betty.  But  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Earlcote's  jealousy  was  unfounded. 
He  remembered  Earlcote's  playing  as  being  superhu- 
manly  perfect,  while  his  own,  in  spite  of  the  fame  he 
had  achieved,  seemed  deficient  to  him  as  compared  to 
the  highest  criterion  he  knew — Earlcote's  musicianship. 
He  stood,  somewhat  dazed  by  the  compliment  which 
Earlcote  was  paying  him,  somewhat  frightened  lest  Earl- 
cote should  adhere  to  his  refusal  because  of  his  profes- 
sional jealousy. 

Earlcote  continued: 

"The  world  is  at  your  feet.  The  very  critics  dare  not 
carp  for  fear  that  in  belittling  you  they  will  merely 
belittle  themselves.  That — precisely  that,  was  my  posi- 
tion in  the  musical  world  when  the  accident  occurred 
which  tumbled  my  future  in  the  dust.  But  there  is  one 
difference.  I  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  my  career,  I 
could  have  gone  no  further,  but  you  have  not  yet  reached 
your  highest  altitude.  The  world  at  large  does  not  know 
that;  the  critics  have  not  enough  ability  or  discernment 
to  know — but  you  know  it,  and  I  know  it,  and  every 
pianist  who  has  ever  heard  you  knows  it.  Three  years 
hence,  in  addition  to  brilliance  of  technique  and  tone 
and  a  profundity  of  intelligence  such  as  I  would  not  have 
believed  possible  in  any  one  but  myself,  you  will  add 
mellowness,  depth  and  sweetness.  There  was  a  time — 
it  is  not  long  ago — when  I  scoffed  at  intelligence  in  inter- 
pretation, when  I  believed  that  feeling  only  should  govern 
our  playing.  I  have  come  to  think  differently  in  the  last 
year,  in  which  a  change  has  come  into  my  life,  of  which 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         473 

I  will  not  speak  now.  In  me,  emotions  were  developed 
first,  intelligence  only  late  in  life.  In  you  the  intellectual 
development  preceded  the  emotional.  Three  years  hence 
you  will  not  be  merely  the  peer  of  the  Earlcote  who 
played  in  public  for  the  last  time  seven  years  ago — you 
will  be  his  superior.  And  I — I  am  forced  to  sit  by  and 
see  you  encroaching  on  my  fame,  see  you  eating  it  up, 
overshadowing  it.  Oh,  my  God — what  suffering,  what 
intolerable  suffering !" 

He  stopped  speaking.  His  face  had  lost  its  twisted, 
contorted,  gargoyle  expression,  and,  as  he  leaned  back, 
exhausted  from  his  passionate  speech,  Richard  marveled 
to  see  that  a  certain  grandeur  was  apparent  in  this  man. 
Richard  had  every  reason  to  hate  and  despise  him,  but 
as  he  looked  at  the  haggard  white  face,  upon  which 
mental  and  physical  suffering  had  set  the  patent  of  their 
own  ineffacable  nobility,  he  felt  neither  hatred  nor  con- 
tempt, merely  a  deep  and  profound  pity. 

Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  eyes  closed  wearily  Earlcote 
spoke : 

"You  must  understand  now  that  what  you  ask  of  me 
is  more  than  any  one  who  is  a  mere  man  could  possibly 
accede  to.  I  must  cling  to  the  forlorn  hope  that  if  I  do 
not  consent  to  a  divorce,  her  courage  to  take  the  decisive 
step  will  fail  her  at  the  last  moment,  or  that,  taking  it 
and  overcome  with  remorse,  for  her  conscience  is  very 
tender  and  her  pride  in  her  spotless  reputation  very 
great,  she  will  yet  return  to  me.  And  now — go,  go." 

So  small  and  colorless  was  the  face  which  lay  against 
the  high  back  of  the  chair  imbedded  in  tippet  and  cap 
of  fur  that  it  looked  like  the  face  of  a  wax  doll,  or  of  a 
corpse. 

Richard  turned  and  went  from  the  room,  without 
bidding  Earlcote  adieu.  He  had  entered  the  apartment 
filled  with  deadly  hate.  He  left  it  feeling  awed — realiz- 


474         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

ing  that  if  he  himself  and  Betty  had  suffered,  this  man, 
who  had  caused  their  suffering,  had  suffered  no  less. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  Betty,  he  would  have  forgiven 
Earlcote,  but  isolated  phrases  of  Betty's  story  rang  in 
his  ears.  He  could  forgive  for  pain  inflicted  upon  him- 
self, not  for  torture  to  which  his  Betty  had  been 
subjected. 

He  stepped  into  the  elevator,  but  before  the  elevator 
boy  had  time  to  close  the  gate,  an  idea  flashed  into 
Richard's  head,  and  he  jumped  from  the  car,  and  nerv- 
ously began  pacing  up  and  down  the  long  hall. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Earlcote  hated  him  and  envied 
him  with  greater  intensity  than  he  loved  Betty's  voice 
and  gloried  in  its  possession.  It  was  likely,  then,  that  if 
he,  Richard,  promised  to  renounce  his  career,  Earlcote 
would  agree  to  a  divorce.  The  possibility  of  carrying 
through  this  plan  excited  him  intensely.  The  sacrifice 
involved  for  himself  was  monumental,  and  he  recoiled 
with  something  like  terror  from  the  vista  of  a  future 
barren  of  public  homage  and  the  joy  of  publicly  practic- 
ing his  art.  The  struggle,  however,  was  brief.  He  put 
the  question  to  himself  selfishly.  What  was  dearer  to 
his  heart,  public  success  or  Betty's  happiness?  For  this 
was  the  fine  point,  as  he,  with  his  delicate  perception  of 
abstractions,  was  quick  to  see.  Betty  was  his,  whether 
he  decided  upon  making  the  burnt  offering  of  himself 
for  her  sake,  or  not.  But  Betty's  happiness  could  be 
insured  in  no  other  way,  and  by  no  other  means,  for, 
coming  to  him  unmarried,  Betty  would  never  be  wholly 
happy,  or  contented,  or  at  peace  with  herself.  She  would 
be  merely  less  unhappy  than  as  Earlcote's  wife. 

His  mind,  set  on  fire  by  the  feasibility  of  the  idea, 
sprang,  flame-like,  from  crag  to  crag,  from  point  to  point 
of  the  discussion  into  which  he  was  about  to  enter.  It 
was  thus  that  Richard  thought ;  no  slow,  pedantic,  labori- 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         475 

ous  reasoning  out  of  a  problem,  but  a  sort  of  incan- 
descent absorption,  seeing  every  phase  of  a  question 
as  white-hot  light  or  visible  shadow. 

Finally  he  went  back  to  the  door  of  the  Earlcote  apart- 
ment and  rang  the  bell. 

"Is  Mr.  Earlcote  still  in  the  library?  If  so,  you  needn't 
announce  me."  Betty's  English  man-servant,  puzzled 
and  a  little  shocked  by  Richard's  unceremoniousness, 
prepared  to  interpose  an  objection,  but  Richard  brushed 
past  him  and  strode  into  the  library.  Earlcote  was  sit- 
ting there  in  the  same  posture  in  which  he  had  left  him. 

"I  have  come  back  again,  Earlcote,  with  another 
proposition." 

Earlcote,  without  stirring,  opened  his  eyes. 

"Well?"  he  asked  wearily. 

Richard  drew  off  his  gloves,  flung  them  upon  his  hat, 
and,  without  an  invitation,  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down, 
close  at  Earlcote's  side.  Then  he  asked,  in  a  low  eager 
voice : 

"Will  you  agree  to  divorce  Mrs.  Earlcote  if,  in  turn,  I 
agree  to  abandon  my  career  on  the  day  of  our  marriage  ?" 

Earlcote  looked  Richard  between  the  eyes  fully  a 
minute  before  answering. 

"Are  you  serious?"  he  asked. 

"I  certainly  am." 

"Do  you  realize  what  you  are  offering  to  do?  Look 
at  me — I  gave  you  a  glimpse  of  my  disappointment  and 
bitterness  before,  but,  believe  me,  it  was  only  a  glimpse. 
Is  any  woman  worth  such  a  sacrifice?" 

"I  do  not  think  you  quite  understand  the  situation," 
Richard  said,  gently.  "Betty  has  promised  to  be  mine — 
you  understand — marriage  or  no  marriage.  But  it  is 
Betty's  happiness  and  peace  of  mind  of  which  I  am  think- 
ing. I  told  you  before  that  I  tried  this  morning  to  get 
her  to  reconsider  this  step.  She  refused  to  do  so. 


476          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

She  is  anxious  to  burn  her  bridges.  But  I  realize  more 
keenly  than  she  does  that  if  she  comes  to  me  as  my — 
well,  not  as  my  wife — she  is  going  to  suffer  cruelly.  I 
wish  to  spare  her  that  suffering.  She  has  suffered  so 
much,  so  very  much  in  the  past,  that  out  of  my  great 
love  for  her  I  feel  I  want  to  do  what  I  can  to  make  her 
future  life  cloudlessly  happy.  That  is  why  I  returned 
to  your  apartment  with  this  new  proposition.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  in  the  hall.  Well,  will  you  accept  it?  Yes 
or  no?" 

"Tell  me,"  Earlcote  spoke,  musingly,  "tell  me,  is  it 
really  only  love  that  prompts  you  to  make  this  sacrifice, 
or  is  it  gratitude?  Is  it  the  feeling  that  you  owe  it  to 
her  to  give  up  your  career  because  she  saved  your  life 
and  made  possible  your  career?" 

Something  in  Earlcote's  voice  attracted  Richard's  at- 
tention and  perplexed  him.  He  said: 

"If  I  were  actuated  by  gratitude,  I  would  be  doing 
Betty  a  very  poor  service.  She  would  inevitably  dis- 
cover, sooner  or  later,  that  my  gain  in  having  her  my 
wife  does  not  outbalance  the  loss  of  my  career.  And  the 
cognizance  of  that  would  make  her  unhappy,  just  as  my 
cognizance  of  her  suffering  if  she  were  not  my  wife 
would  make  me  unhappy.  We  must  both  be  gainers,  she 
and  myself,  if  our  happiness  is  to  be  firmly  established." 

"I  see,"  Earlcote  said,  musingly. 

"Besides,"  Richard's  voice  vibrated,  "besides,  I  must 
correct  a  slight  inaccuracy  contained  in  your  statement. 
I  do  not  owe  my  career  to  Betty  further  than  that  she 
saved  me  for  the  brilliant  chance  that  came  to  me." 

"Pardon  me,  but  you  do  owe  your  career  to  Betty." 
Earlcote  spoke  with  averted  eyes.  "When  she  promised 
to  marry  me,  she  insisted  that  I  arrange  to  pay  part  of 
the  sum  of  money  agreed  upon  between  us  to  some 
musical  organization,  arranging  with  them  that  the  money 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         477 

be  represented  to  you  as  a  scholarship  emanating  from 
that  organization.  I  am  surprised  she  never  told  you." 

Richard  rose  and  stood  looking  into  the  fire,  leaning 
his  elbows  heavily  on  the  mantel.  After  a  little  while 
he  said : 

"No,  she  never  told  me."  Again  he  fell  silent,  Earlcote 
watching  him  furtively  from  under  contracted  brows. 
Richard  was  mentally  searching  for  something,  some- 
thing that  Betty  had  said,  something  that  concerned  the 
thing  Earlcote  had  just  told  him.  An  abnormally  quick 
intuition  was  among  Richard's  feminine  traits,  and  it 
came  to  him  that  what  Earlcote  had  just  told  him  had  to 
do  with  Betty's  doubt  of  him.  But  what? 

Finally  he  turned  to  Earlcote  and  asked: 

"Well,  have  you  made  up  your  mind  yet,  is  it  yes 
or  no?" 

"Betty  is  to  continue  on  the  stage,  bearing  my  name  ?" 

"Only  until  the  divorce  is  arranged." 

Earlcote  demurred.  They  haggled  over  this,  as  Betty 
and  Earlcote  had  once  haggled  over  Richard's  future. 
Suddenly,  at  the  moment  when  Richard  least  expected  a 
weakening  of  purpose,  Earlcote  gave  in. 

"And  when  do  you  retire  from  public  life?" 

"On  my  wedding  day." 

Earlcote  wished  him  to  retire  at  once,  but  Richard 
pressed  the  point  that  he  needed  money — that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  provide  for  at  least  one  or  two 
years  of  the  future.  Earlcote  said,  brusquely : 

"Oh,  very  well.  Have  your  way.  Do  me  the  favor  to 
sign  a  paper,  containing  our  agreement.  It  would  not 
stand  in  any  court  of  law,  but  between  gentlemen — you 
will  find  ink  and  paper  on  the  table  yonder." 

Richard  seated  himself  at  the  table  indicated. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  word  the  agreement,  or  will  you  ?" 
asked  Richard. 


478         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

Earlcote  stretched  out  his  hand.  "Write  this,"  he 
said,  imperiously,  as  if  speaking  to  an  amanuensis : 

"  'In  consideration  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Earlcote  will 
receive  her  freedom  at  the  hands  of  her  husband,  Stanley 
Earlcote,  I,  the  undersigned,  hereby  agree  to  terminate 
my  career  as  a  pianist  on  my  wedding  day.  After  that 
event  I  will  not  play  anywhere  at  all  in  public.' " 

Richard  wrote  as  Earlcote  directed,  and  silently  signed 
the  paper.  Earlcote,  on  receiving  it,  folded  it  without 
reading  it.  Richard  walked  to  the  door.  There,  his 
hand  on  the  knob,  he  halted  and  asked : 

"On  returning  to  her  home  Mrs.  Earlcote,  I  suppose, 
need  have  no  apprehensions?" 

"Apprehensions  of  what?" 

"Of  an  undesirable  intimacy." 

"Certainly  not." 

"Thank  you." 

"Besides,  I  will  show  her  the  courtesy  of  not  coming 
here  at  all.  You  are  aware,  I  dare  say,  that  these  are 
her  apartments,  not  mine." 

"I  was  not  sure.  Thank  you  again.  And,  good- 
morning." 

"Good-morning."  Earlcote  echoed  the  farewell  in 
the  same  bland  tone  Richard  had  employed. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Richard  walked  into  the  room 
where  Betty  was  waiting  for  him,  at  his  own  hotel.  He 
dismissed  the  detectives  at  the  door,  and  then  sat  down 
beside  her  as  for  a  long  talk. 

"You  seem  strangely  happy,  Dicky.  You  do  not  mean 
to  tell  me  that  Earlcote  has  consented  to  a  divorce." 

"Yes,  Betty,  he  has." 

"How  did  you  manage  it?" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         479 

"I  trafficked  and  bargained." 

"Dick !" 

"I  promised,  dearest,  that  after  our  wedding  day  my 
career  as  a  pianist  will  be  at  an  end." 

"Oh,  it's  infamous  of  him  to  exact  such  a  promise." 

"He  did  not  exact  the  promise.  I  myself  made  the 
offer." 

"You  must  rescind  the  agreement." 

"It  is  signed,  Betty.    There  can  be  no  rescinding  of  it." 

"No,  Dick — you  shall  not  do  this  for  me — you  and 
your  art  are  one." 

"I  will  still  have  my  art,  Betty,  but  I  will  not  be  able 
to  ply  it  in  public.  Listen  to  me,  sweetheart,  I  had  to 
choose  not  between  you  and  my  public  life,  but  between 
something  far  more  precious  to  me  even  than  yourself. 
I  speak  of  your  happiness,  dear.  I  chose  what  I  wanted 
most." 

"Dicky,  oh,  Dicky!" 

"And  now,  dear — why  did  you  deceive  me  all  these 
years  ?" 

"I  never  deceived  you,  Dick,"  she  faltered. 

"Earlcote  told  me  of  the  spurious  scholarship." 

"Ah — I  didn't  want  you  to  know.  I  did  not  want  you 
to  feel  obligated  to  me — not  for  your  career." 

"Oh,  Betty,  Betty,  how  you  have  loved  me  always." 

"Yes,  Dick,  but  once  I  doubted  you.  I  thought  that 
you  would  not  be  willing  to  make  as  great  a  sacrifice  for 
me  as  I  for  you — and  now,  Dicky,  you  are  giving  up 
for  my  sake  what  is  dearest  to  you." 

So  that  was  the  fact  he  had  delved  for  without  bring- 
ing it  to  light. 

"I  thank  heaven,  dearest,  that,  being  weighed  in  the 
scales,  I  have  not  been  found  wanting.  And,  Betty,  dear, 
there  is  a  clause  to  our  agreement — after  we  are  married, 
dear,  you  are  at  liberty  to  leave  the  stage." 


480         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

She  began  to  cry  softly. 

"Oh,  Dick,  it  was  worth  enduring  all  I  did  to  look 
forward  to  such  complete  happiness  as  your  wife.  For- 
give me,  dearest,  I  am  selfish,  I  forgot  that  you  are 
paying  the  purchase  price." 

"As  you  once  paid  it  for  me,"  he  said.  "But  I  will 
have  my  recompense,  dearest."  And  to  soothe  her,  for 
she  was  still  crying,  he  said,  soothingly,  as  if  speaking 
to  a  child : 

"In  the  next  six  months,  dear,  I  will  earn  enough  to 
buy  a  tiny,  tiny  bungalow  in  the  woods,  just  big  enough 
for  you  and  me  and  happiness.  We  will  re-enter  Ar- 
cady,  dear,  where  we  once  lived — do  you  remember?  A 
long,  long  time  ago.  And  we  will  give  elaborate  con- 
certs only  for  ourselves  and  the  birds,  the  crickets  and 
frogs.  And  when  we  get  tired  of  ourselves,  and  of  the 
birds  and  the  crickets  and  the  frogs,  we  will  ransack 
the  neighborhood  for  honest  rustics,  and  invite  them  to 
come  and  hear  us  play  and  sing.  And  when  we  die,  we 
will  be  buried  in  one  grave,  and  a  tablet  above  us  will 
bear  the  inscription:  'He  was  a  famous  pianist,  she  a 
great  singer,  but  they  forsook  the  world  to  live  only 
for  themselves.' " 

She  had  stopped  crying  at  last,  and  now  sat,  his  hand 
clasped  in  hers,  looking  blindly  through  lashes  still  wet, 
across  the  room,  at  nothing  in  particular. 

Never  had  she  been  dearer  to  him  than  at  this  mo- 
ment, but,  even  as  he  held  her  hand  in  his,  there  entered 
into  his  soul  a  fear,  a  horrid,  ungainly  fear  of  what  the 
future  would  mean  after  he  was  deprived  of  his  splendid 
career.  He  did  not  regret  what  he  had  done;  he  knew 
that  he  would  have  done  it  all  over  again;  but  fear 
entered  his  soul  at  that  moment,  and  he  realized  that 
thereafter  it  would  walk  at  his  side. 


CHAPTER  III 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  April  thirtieth  they 
were  married  quietly  in  the  Little  Church  Around  the 
Corner.  The  opera  season  had  ended  the  week  before. 
Richard's  and  Betty's  "last  appearance  in  public"  had 
taken  place  simultaneously  on  the  previous  day.  Both 
the  Opera  House  and  Carnegie  Hall  had  been  packed. 
The  two  events,  and  the  romance  linking  them  together, 
had  made  a  terrific  stir  in  the  musical  world.  Richard 
had  repeated  the  same  program  thrice  running  on  three 
consecutive  days — an  unprecedented  event. 

Betty  had  plainly  stated  that  her  reason  for  leaving  the 
stage  was  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Pryce,  but  Richard  had 
been  less  communicative.  It  was  obviously  impossible 
to  tell  the  press  the  truth,  so  he  maintained  a  stony  and 
dignified  silence.  Betty  wept  bitter  tears  on  reading  the 
press  comments  on  Richard's  projected  retirement,  for 
Richard  went  so  far  as  to  refuse  to  even  definitely  com- 
mit himself  as  to  his  retirement.  He  hated  anything  in 
the  way  of  unlegitimate  press  agent  work,  and  neither 
repudiated  nor  confirmed  the  rumors  which  had  spread, 
no  one  knew  how,  concerning  himself. 

Richard  had  bought  a  tiny  cottage  in  the  Adirondacks, 
very  near  Mount  Eerie,  where  they  had  spent  what  it 
pleased  Richard  to  call  their  "first  honeymoon."  They 
intended  leaving  for  their  home  immediately  after  the 
ceremony. 

As  they  left  the  church,  a  messenger  boy  who  was 
standing  in  the  tiny  pavilion  between  the  church  and 
parsonage,  came  forward  and  addressed  Richard. 

481 


482          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

"Mr.  Richard  Pryce?" 

"Yes." 

The  boy  handed  him  a  long,  official-looking  envelope, 
received  Richard's  signature  and  effaced  himself.  Betty, 
peeping  over  Dick's  shoulder,  observed  : 

"Why,  Dick,  it  is  Earlcote's  writing." 

They  walked  to  the  pavilion,  arm-in-arm,  and  standing 
in  its  shelter,  Richard  tore  open  the  envelope.  It  con- 
tained a  smaller  envelope  and  a  letter.  From  the  smaller 
envelope  Richard  took  the  paper  which  Earlcote  had 
dictated  to  him  the  day  on  which  Earlcote  had  agreed 
to  a  divorce. 

Hastily  unfolding  the  letter,  Richard  read  the  commu- 
nication aloud. 

"DEAR  MR.  PRYCE: 

"It  is,  I  believe,  wholly  without  precedent  that  the  first 
husband  should  send  the  second  husband  a  wedding  gift. 
Yet  this  is  what  I  am  doing.  I  am  returning  you  the 
agreement  you  signed,  thereby  releasing  you  of  the 
promise  contained  therein. 

"Have  the  kindness  not  to  thank  me,  for — frankly — I 
am  not  doing  this  for  your  sake.  I  am  cutting  a  suffi- 
ciently ridiculous  figure  as  it  is.  I  am,  in  brief,  releasing 
you  of  your  promise  for  your  wife's  sake. 

"You  will  infer  from  this  that  I  love  her,  and  this  is 
the  truth.  Certain  emotions,  entertained  by  myself,  must 
strike  the  onlooker  as  laughable  in  the  last  degree,  yet 
I  trust  that  the  kindness  of  your  heart,  of  which  you 
have  given  proof  on  several  occasions,  will  help  make 
you  refrain  from  mirth  of  which  I  would  be  the  butt. 

"Yes,  I  love  Betty  Garside.  Understand  me — I  did 
not  love  her  when  I  married  her.  I  loved  only  her  voice. 
I  was  mad  to  cultivate  that — the  rest  you  know. 

"She  hated  me — this  also  you  know.  I  ignored  her 
hatred,  as  she,  no  doubt,  has  told  you.  Then,  about  two 
years  ago  a  singular  thing  happened,  with  which  I  fancy 
her  delicacy  did  not  permit  her  to  acquaint  you.  It  is 
possible,  also,  that  she  has  forgotten  the  occurrence. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         483 

"One  evening,  after  she  had  been  singing  Elisabeth's 
prayer  for  me,  I  said  to  her,  allowing  myself  a  latitude 
in  giving  expression  to  my  thoughts  in  which  I  rarely 
indulge : 

"  'Betty,  I  would  give,  I  know  not  what,  if,  of  your 
own  accord,  you  were  to  put  your  arms  about  me  and 
kiss  me.' 

"She  replied: 

"  'You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  do  that.  I  have  never 
refused  to  kiss  you  when  you  commanded  me  to  kiss  you. 
It  is  part  of  our  bargain.  But  your  request  for  a  caress 
must  be  couched  in  words  of  command.' 

"I  was  stung  into  replying: 

"  'All  that  because  I  had  the  misfortune  to  become 
crippled.' 

"  'All  that,'  she  retorted  with  spirit,  'because  you  are 
not  the  man  I  love.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if  a 
similar  accident  were  to  befall  him,  I  would  go  on  loving 
him  all  the  same.' 

"  'Well/  I  replied,  'I  will  not  command  you  to  kiss  me, 
but  heaven  knows,  I  would  sell  my  immortal  soul  for  a 
voluntary  kiss  from  you.  I  speak  not  of  a  kiss  of  pas- 
sion, but  of  a  kiss  of  mere  affection.' 

"She  did  not  reply,  but  resumed  singing.  I  do  not 
know  what  she  sang.  For  once  I  did  not  listen.  Ut- 
terly wretched,  in  a  state  of  dejection  and  self-contempt 
which  I  have  never  duplicated  before  or  after,  I  sat  in 
my  chair  buried  in  mournful  reflection.  I  had  been  mar- 
ried to  my  wife  for  over  three  years.  I  had  made  a 
great  singer  of  her.  She  respected  my  authority  in  every 
way  and  at  all  times,  but  I  could  not  hope  for  so  small 
a  thing  as  a  kiss  of  affection.  And  yet  I  had  been  fool- 
ish enough  to  believe  on  several  former  occasions  that 
she  felt  a  sort  of  luke-warm  affection  for  me  because  she 
showed  me  such  trifling  but  comfortable  attentions  as  a 
daughter  may  show  her  father,  as  reminding  me  of  my 
rubbers  if  the  earth  was  moist,  or  getting  a  forgotten 
muffler  for  me  if  the  wind  was  sharp. 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  I  sat  there,  brooding.  She 
stopped  singing,  and  presently  she  came  and  sat  down 
beside  me — a  very  unusual  thing  for  her  to  do.  And 


484         THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

suddenly  she  put  one  arm  about  my  neck  and  kissed  me 
thrice,  on  the  cheek,  on  the  brow  and  on  the  temple. 
Then  she  rose,  and  turned  up  the  lamp  and  offered  to 
read  Shelley's  'Queen  Mab'  for  me,  and  when  bedtime 
came,  in  bidding  me  good-night,  she  touched  my  brow 
with  her  fingers. 

"It  was  that  evening,  I  think,  that  I  began  to  love  her, 
or  perhaps  it  was  only  the  realization  that  I  loved  her 
which  was  born  that  evening.  At  any  rate,  though  I 
desired  her  more  than  ever  after  the  fashion  of  a  man  in 
love — I  respected  her  disinclinations  after  that  evening, 
and  never  after  that  did  I  seek  an  entrance  to  her  room. 
Thus  was  I,  the  cynic,  the  materialist,  the  utilitarian, 
brought  to  my  knees  when  the  voice  of  the  heart  began 
to  speak.  Do  you  mock  me?  I  mock  myself. 

"When  you  came  to  see  me  that  morning  in  Novem- 
ber, I  was  filled  with  deadly  hatred  for  you.  While  you 
talked  I  began  to  realize  how  deep  and  sincere  was  your 
love.  Then,  because  I  loved  her,  the  thought  came  that 
after  all  it  would  be  sweet  to  know  her  happy.  But  I 
felt  a  fierce  desire  to  test  you,  to  prove  you  unworthy,  so 
that  I  might  have  an  excuse  for  not  releasing  her.  Pur- 
posely I  told  you  what  I  did  about  my  envy  of  you;  you 
are  no  fool;  I  realized  that  the  thought  of  the  sacrifice 
you  proposed  ultimately  would  come  to  you,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  if  you  possessed  the  nobility  of  soul  to 
come  back  to  me  with  that  proposition. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  I  need  not  rehearse.  You 
proved  yourself  worthy  of  my  Betty.  I  call  her  that  for 
the  last  time.  Take  her  then,  and  make  her  happy,  and 
be  happy  yourself,  since  without  your  happiness  hers 
would  be  imperfect. 

"I  have  not  much  longer  to  live.  Mock  me,  if  you  will. 
I  deride  myself.  But  it  is  better  to  sweep  the  heart  clean 
of  hate  than  to  nurture  it,  for  hatred,  as  I  have  learned, 
hurts  not  him  who  is  hated  so  much  as  him  who  hates. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  my  motives  in  this  singular  affair  are 
purely  selfish.  Let  us  assume  they  are.  It  is  more  in 
keeping  with  my  character.  I  was  ever  a  prince  of 
egoists. 

"EARLCOTE." 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART         485 

Richard  and  Betty  stood  in  silence,  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, after  reading  the  letter.  It  was  a  perfect  day.  The 
church  gardens  were  lapped  in  the  glory  of  early  spring. 
Tender  little  leaves,  curly  and  soft  as  the  down  of  a 
chick,  ran  along  every  branch  and  twig  and  made  the 
very  air  where  twig  crowded  upon  twig,  leaf  upon  leaf, 
appear  verdant.  From  the  earth  rose  the  sweet  odors 
of  spring;  the  winter's  mold  quickened  by  rain  and  sun- 
light gave  out  a  rich,  warm  fragrance  as  sweet  to  those 
who  love  it  as  the  fragrance  of  any  flower. 

Betty  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "the  one  thing  wanting  to  make  our 
happiness  complete  has  come.  It  was  kind  of  Earlcote." 

Richard  asked,  abruptly:  "Betty,  after  reading  that 
letter,  do  you  still  hate  him?  Is  there  not  perhaps  a 
spark  of  love  for  him  in  your  heart,  after  all?  Answer 
me  truthfully,  dear.  The  man's  nobility,  belated  as  it  is, 
may  have  touched  you." 

"Dicky,  I  have  suspected  more  than  once  what  the 
letter  tells  you.  I  suspected,  also,  more  than  once,  that 
he  might  release  you  of  this  promise.  Earlcote  seemed 
so  changed  the  last  few  times  I  saw  him." 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question." 

"Dicky  boy,  Earlcote  is  trying  to  make  amends  for 
past  evil,  to  atone  for  past  wrongdoing.  That  is  splendid 
of  him.  I  admire  him  for  it.  And,  if  you  approve,  when 
we  get  back  to  town  I  will  call  on  him  at  least  once  a 
week  and  sing  to  him.  But  as  to  love — oh,  Dicky,  Dicky 
boy,  I  gave  you  my  love,  all  of  it,  the  first  time  I  saw 
you  and  I  have  never  wavered  or  faltered  in  my  allegi- 
ance to  you.  I  endured  a  martyrdom  for  your  sake!  I 
can  forgive  and  pity  him  who  inflicted  it  upon  me.  But 
I  love  him  for  whom  I  endured  it.  I  paid  a  price  for 
you,  dearest,  just  as  you  were  willing  to  pay  a  price  for 
me.  You  and  I,  sweetheart,  belong  to  each  other.  We 


486          THE    VOICE    OF    THE    HEART 

have  paid  for  each  other  thrice  over  in  heartache  and  in 
pain." 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  In  her  sweet  face 
was  painted  the  adorable  April  of  bitter-sweet  feelings. 
Forgetting  that  they  were  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
street,  Richard  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  One  or  two 
passersby  smiled  and  walked  on.  The  sparrows  that 
lived  in  the  trees  chattered  wildly;  a  few  street  urchins 
nudged  each  other  and  ran  howling  gleefully  down  the 
street. 

But  Richard  and  Betty  heard  neither  street  urchins  nor 
sparrows,  saw  neither  passersby  nor  the  kindly  rector 
who  stood  smiling  behind  the  curtained  windows. 
They  had  forgotten  everything  and  everybody  except 
themselves  and  their  happiness. 


THE  END. 


THE   GREATER   JOY 

By 
MARGARET  BLAKE 


What  the  Critics  Say 

"  A  great  deal  of  curiosity  has  been  aroused  as  to  the  author- 
ship of '  The  Greater  Joy,'  a  daring  love  story  that  is  having  a  run, 
especially  in  New  York.  Margaret  Blake,  the  name  on  the  title- 
page,  is  undoubtedly  a  pseudonym,  and  several  well-known  authors 
have  been  suspected  of  hiding  behind  it  because  of  the  startling 
frankness  with  which  the  sex  problem  is  handled.  The  novel  has 
already  gone  through  several  editions,  but  only  the  publishers  and 
author  know  the  real  name  of  Margaret  Blake." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  A  novel  daringly  conceived  and  boldly  written  .  .  .  yet  the 
book  is  by  no  means  a  mere  study  of  immorality,  nor  is  the  purpose 
a  shadowy  one." — Boston  Herald. 

"...  Its  love  episodes  throw  the  Robert  W.  Chambers 
fiction  far  into  the  shade." — New  York  Herald.} 

"Though  a  realistic  story,  the  author  points  the  value  of  a 
genuine  and  reverent  love." — Buffalo  Express. 

"  Such  a  situation  becomes  of  intense  dramatic  interest,  and 
the  author  has  succeeded  in  compelling  the  reader's  respect  and 
sympathy  for  the  man  and  woman,  even  when  they  placed  them- 
selves beyond  the  pale  of  law  and  custom." — Boston  Globe. 

"  It  can  safely  be  called  a  tumultuous  romance." 

— American  Club  Woman. 

"  In '  The  Greater  Joy '  we  are  given  the  old  social  problem 
which  serves  the  dramatist  and  novelist  so  well,  and  which,  if  inter- 
estingly handled,  as  in  this  instance,  is  sure  to  attract." 

— San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"  An  international  romance  in  which  temperament  and  passion 
run  riot." — Pittsburg  Post. 

"Margaret  Blake  has  begun  and  sustained  throughout  her 
romance  a  strong  note." — New  Orleans  Times-Democrat. 


Bound  in  Cloth,  Illustrated.    $1.25. 


G-  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY,  New  York 

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